Spy Bride
by Dream Writer 4 Life
Summary: “How many times do we have to try to get married before it actually happens?” Syd and Vaughn’s numerous attempts at marriage. First in the Different Shade of Normal series. A Dream Writer Experience.
1. The First Attempt

Part One of a new series centering on the so-called "normal" futures of Syd and Vaughn. Lots of humour and fluff, but also the stuff that makes live interesting. Hope you enjoy!

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Title: Spy Bride

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Series: Different Shade of Normal

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Author: Dream Writer 4 Life

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Rating: PG-13 (subject to change) for language, sexual innuendo, violence, and situations

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Genre: Romance/Humour

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Archived: FanFiction.Net, Cover Me, and SD-1. Anywhere else, just ask and you shall receive!

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'Shippers' Paradise: S/V, F/Weiss, allusion to F/Will

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Spoilers/Timeline: AU; no Evil!Francie, and Weiss and Francie are dating and Will, and Francie have dated, but everything from Season 2 is pretty much fair game (last two minutes of "Telling" excluded). Sloane, Sark, and Irina are on the loose, SD-6 is gone, and S/V are together. 

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Summary: "How many times do we have to try to get married before it actually happens?" Syd and Vaughn's numerous attempts at marriage. First in the Different Shade of Normal series. A Dream Writer Experience.

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Suggested Soundtrack: Any love song ever written, which should include: "A Day Without Rain" by Enya, "Slumber my Darling" by Allison Kraus and Yo-Yo Ma, "What's Simple is True" by Jewel, "Ironic" by Alanis Morissette, "Best of Me" by Starting Line, "Memphis Soul Song" by Uncle Kracker, and "I Shall Believe" by Sheryl Crow

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Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it. Alias stuffs belong to JJ and Bad Robot. Things I do own: the poems in Syd's journal, Wally's Wacky Wedding World, Betty's Bridal Boutique, and a pack of gum. I am not, nor have I ever been, married, therefore things may be a bit off.

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Author's Note: The poems are actually excerpts from songs that I wrote: "Lover's Scat", "True Love", and "Miracle". For full lyrics, contact me. Enjoy! And I seriously hope that you all listen to at least one of these songs while reading: they really set the tone.

Spy Bride

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Chapter One: The First Attempt

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'"Yes."

'It's been almost a year since I said that word, and I still can't believe this is happening.

'I'm getting married.

'Not just to anyone, either; to my one, my love, my life, my guardian angel: Michael C. Vaughn. Every time I even think about him, my stomach does this funny little dance/flip-flop thing and this stupid grin threatens to introduce my lips to my ears. I love him so much.

'I've never felt this way about anyone before: with Danny, it was more of an infatuation, puppy love, even; and Noah…yeah, I just wanted his body. No one could ever compare to Michael — Vaughn — no wait a second; I had it right the first time. (See, I've slowly been introducing his first name into my vocabulary, despite his incessant insisting that I call him whatever the hell comes out first; I think he's tired of me stumbling over myself and back tracking to make sure I said the right name.)

'And I miss him so much. Ever since we announced our engagement, we haven't seen each other for more than three days in a row. For some reason, I can't help but blame my father for that in some capacity. Every single mission to a far-off land that has come in to the Ops Centre, my father has suggested one or the other of us, but never both together. He made a mistake once, though. He had sent me on a simple grab-and-run in Naples, Italy, while forgetting that Vaughn — Michael! — and Weiss were doing reconnaissance in Rome. Needless to say, I didn't come home with my operation's team. I honestly think that my father is single-handedly responsible for our yearlong engagement. Kendall is even starting to feel sorry for us.

'Francie is beginning to be particularly persistent that we just pick a date and get on with it. On one of my rare days alone with Vaughn — Michael! — she dragged me out of bed to start choosing a gown. She's got so many lists scattered throughout the house that it's a wonder we have any paper left at all! Florists (their specialty flowers, prices, numbers, addresses, and how nice they are), reception halls (capacities, prices, numbers, addresses, and the quality of the paint job), and even DJ's! I don't think I get to plan my honeymoon with the man; she's probably got a list for that somewhere. She told me that I better hurry up: the wedding cake in the freezer at her restaurant is getting stale. Only half of me believes she is joking.

'Boy, is she going to be surprised when she sees how Eric is handling the Best Man duties. After being appointed to the position, he spent five minutes planning the bachelor party and declared himself done, flopping down on my couch with a beer to watch football. I had left the room before Francie could claw out his eyes or beat him to a bloody pulp.

'I'm just so tired of all this — this messing around. Sometimes I find myself wondering why we just can't skip the actual wedding and go straight to being newlyweds who spend twelve hours out of the day in bed. Ah, that would be the life.'

She smiled and giggled aloud as she re-read her entry. It had been Vaughn's idea to keep "wedding journals" during their engagement so that they wouldn't go completely crazy. Love letters were impractical, phone calls expensive, and emails impersonal. They shared the same beat-up blue journal, writing in it whenever they were at home for more than five seconds. And when the blue moon came and the couple was in the same city at the same time, they would look over what they wrote and laugh for hours.

But this wasn't one of those rare days. He was in Paris doing…something for her father while she had been home alone, laying on his side of the bed most of the day to immerse herself in his scent and looking through their crazy journal. Francie had dragged Weiss off his ass and to every single tux rental place within a hundred-mile radius. And Will…well, Syd thought that he said he was out with his new girlfriend, but he could have also said that his new girlfriend was out and he was going to work. Either way, he wasn't there, and Syd was home alone with her thoughts.

Reading it over for a second time, her pen hovered over two words, hesitating to strike them through. She had called him her guardian angel so often that he had eventually become so self-conscious that he asked her to stop. To appease him she complied, much to his relief. But little did he know that she had shortened the saying to "G.A." whenever he was around, and it elongated the moment he was out of earshot. Though she believed Weiss might have told him once, Vaughn never broached the subject again. Sydney secretly thought that he considered it endearing.

Not bothering to be neat, she signed her name and fastened the journal's covers together with a red ribbon, a stripe of passion running through a sea of the mundane. Both it and the pen slid from her slim fingers and to the hardwood floor underneath her chair. She was sitting in her bedroom upon a chair that she had dragged in front of her window from the kitchen. Her feet were propped up on the windowsill, knees poking up under her chin. Loose hair spilled over them, occasionally brushed back by the breeze through the open window in front of her; the same one that gently played with the filmy white curtains, undulating around her hunched form. When they flittered across her bare arms they tickled, but that wasn't the reason a contented smile had strung itself upon her lips. The fairy-light touches were reminiscent of Michael's caresses as they had lain together in bed so many times before.

Her spectacular view included a brick wall, a dirty alleyway, and a dumpster, but to her it couldn't have been more perfect. The shadows that the late afternoon light always produced at this time of day never ceased to hold her breath captive. At this time, the sun's rays really were that fabled golden-yellow and bathed everything within its reach in an ethereal ambrosia of light. It flowed through the panes of glass and onto her toes; she curled and uncurled them, manipulating the shadows for her imagination's benefit. She hugged her knees and clasped her hands over her shins; she would usually reside in that same position until the last remnants of twilight had played out.

This small window of time was the one she loved the best. People were just getting out of work and heading to their homes, their lovers, their families. After an entire eight hours of keeping a straight face, smiles would allow dimples and imperfect teeth to display themselves for the world to gawk at. Before — when Michael hadn't been officially hers to keep in her heart — she'd despised this time of day, even went so far as to hole herself up in her closet under the pretense of reorganizing it. But now…Now no one could keep her away form her Window of Observation. It was only a matter of time until she'd be one of those smiling people, grinning like someone had stapled her cheeks as she met _her husband_ on _their_ doorstep. To be able to even think those words — let alone the prospect of ever living them — was enough to send a thrill of dreamy delight throughout her veins. It was all a matter of time.

She could see it all so clearly.

Somehow she'd get home before him, practically speeding to pull into their driveway first. No matter how long they would be married, she knew she'd always feel the need to beautify herself for him, and he'd always insist that no matter what she looked like, she'd always be the most beautiful creature he ever saw. So she'd strip off all her make-up, throw on a pair of worn jeans and one of his shirts, and station herself outside their front door. It didn't matter if they had a deck or not, although she knew they each wanted a large house with a porch; it would serve as an incentive to fill it with children. So she'd sit on their front stoop or porch steps, leaning in the entryway or against a banister respectively, and wait in her beloved afternoon light for her beloved husband to come home. And when he did, she'd pounce on him before he even had a chance to close his car door. Then they'd walk into their house hand in hand, make and eat dinner side by side, and then she'd reclaim her spot on their stoop/porch with him opposite her to watch the sun slip into the Land of Dreams like a twig into quicksand. And as the first stars began their nightly vigil, he would lead her into their bedroom and make love to her until they were both utterly spent.

Sydney sighed happily at the wonderful prospect, the sound almost startling her in the near stillness that hung about her like a warm blanket. It suddenly dawned on her that she had about a million other things that she should be doing at that moment, but not one of them seemed as important as lightly sketching out her Castle in the Sky. The picture was in pencil, of course; she didn't want any thing but one to be carved in stone. 'Michael' was tattooed all over her future in the most permanent marker to be found; everything else could change a mile a minute, but as long as he was constant, it simply didn't matter. Not in the slightest.

This was what she should have written in the journal, she realized too late. It wouldn't have made either of them laugh particularly hard, but it would have evoked that sense of peace each of them maintained whenever the puzzle pieces of their lives slipped from their hands and simply pulled themselves together. The same sense of peace that was weaving itself into her blanket of silence.

Suddenly a flurry of activity began buzzing in her brain: words were forming, sentences gluing together, stanzas tearing themselves apart. Instinctively, she reached down to the journal, hurriedly untied the ribbon, threw away the cap, and penned these words:

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'People say a perfect love

Has no place in the world

That it doesn't exist in the way that

You and I know it to be

'Objects may block our way

People, places, things

All that the world has to bring

'But I know one thing to be true

In my heart and yours

Everything is gonna be all right

'Mountains may be high

And the way might be hard

Rivers may be wide

With their shores far away

The road might be long

And your feet are tired and blue

But it will always lead me back to you

'It's been a long, hard relationship

Things haven't turned out the way we planned

But we roll with the punches, I have another hunch

It is downhill from here

'We've been together so long,

No chance that this could be wrong

And it feels so right

'No matter what people say

We will never stray from

Each other's side

'I knew at once

We were meant to be

You and me forever

It's our destiny

When trouble blocks our way

We'll wait another day

And we'll get through

Because our love is true

'I'm not weak

I can hold my own against anyone

But sometimes even the strong need someone

To lean on

'When it's dark

You're the only ray that lights my way

The only one who's not afraid

Of skeletons

'When it's bleak

You stand tall and brave to fight against it all

To back me up as my second

Standing in my corner

'I need a miracle

To save me from this world

I need a miracle

To help me be the girl I wanna be

I need a miracle

'Cause everywhere I turn there's someone

Knocking down my door

And they won't go away

I need a miracle today

'You're my miracle.'

Her pen stilled and she smoothed the paper with a cramping hand. Boy, would she have a job of explaining that one to Michael when it was his turn to pick up the journal. The rhyme schemes were disjointed, the flow and pattern jumbled, and some of the phrases were cheesy clichés that were rich enough to spread on a Triscuit, but she didn't care; the emotion and sincerity was there, and that was all that counted in the end.

She had refastened the covers of the journal and was searching the floor in the waning light for her poor pen's cap when a sharp rap on the doorframe was heard. Looking up sharply in shock, she blushed when she saw Francie bracing herself in the entryway. Sydney straightened up and covertly slid the notebook into its hiding place under the mattress. "Hey Fran. What's up?"

Her friend smiled from her position and jabbed her thumb towards the kitchen. "Eric wanted a beer, but he was too cheap to stop at a bar and actually buy one. He's raiding the fridge right now. What were _you_ doing?" She added, narrowing her eyes playfully at the uncapped pen still clutched in Sydney's hand.

Tossing it onto her nightstand she shrugged indifferently. "Oh, nothing. I found this under the bed and thought it was Mike's."

"Alright. Oh hey!" Francie's eyes glowed as they lit upon one of her friend's favourite sweaters. "Can I borrow that? Eric and I are heading back out when he finishes his beer. We'll be back late, maybe not at all. Don't wait up. And it's your turn to do laundry this week." Grabbing the article of clothing, she winked and blew out of the room without letting Sydney say another word.

Shrugging to herself, Syd headed towards her closet to gather her dirty laundry from the hamper. She was still trying to get accustomed to her best friend and Michael's best friend actually, seriously dating. For the moment, though, she decided to leave the enigma alone and just complete her task at hand. Dragging out the hamper, she lugged it down the hall to the laundry room.

It was a room small enough to be almost classified as a closet that she and Francie hadn't known what to do with. After deciding against a large walk-in closet (which would have prompted a fight), they opted to turn it into a laundry/sewing/ironing room — not that either of them did much sewing or ironing. The major reason for the uncertainty was the fact that there was a large bay window with a plush window seat. It was just an all-around odd space, but Sydney was grateful for its uniqueness for it gave her yet another niche to sit and think in.

Francie's belongings were already sorted; all Sydney needed to do was throw hers into the fray. Switching on the washer, she haphazardly tossed in a load of whites and some detergent before letting the lid slide from her fingertips. Her backside gradually found the padded window seat and nestled into it. She leaned back against a panel of panes and folded her legs into the small space, settling her hands onto her stomach softly. From this vantage point, she could see the alley on the opposite side of the apartment building. This one held little more to ogle at: a discarded tire was propped up against an almost identical dumpster and more garbage was being tossed about in the amplified wind. But the same golden glaze was airbrushed over everything, allowing her mind to slip back into the mode it was in before she had been so rudely interrupted.

Tilting her head back, it slid of its own accord across the slick surface until it came to rest against a wooden divider. She sighed heavily in content as the warm light hit her face; the intensity wasn't as blinding as the midday sun, so she was able to let her eyes adjust and keep staring unseeingly up the alley. As the machine groaned to life her mind wandered, not really devoting itself to any particular issue, but idly wondering about this or that. She though about whether their kids would have his eyes, her dimples, and his disposition; her skills, his loyalty, and her stubbornness. She imagined her father walking her down the aisle, her Prince Charming at its pinnacle, and her father shedding the first tear she'd ever seen him conjure. In her mind's eye, she could see the two newlyweds arriving at a house — _their_ house — and he would carry her over the threshold like they only did in movies and cheesy romance novels. She would laugh loudly and slap his arm, saying that it would be the last time he would carry her anywhere, even if she had no legs and had to drag herself around on her knuckles.

Sydney was so lost in her fantasy world that she was barely aware of the shadow that had blocked her precious light, lingering a fraction of a second longer than would a passerby. It registered too late, and by the time that her eyes locked onto the head of the alley, the shape had passed, leaving her to glare openly at the orange orb half-hidden by gaping high-rises. Thinking nothing more of the disturbance, her imagination slipped into overdrive yet again, the blueprints of her castle pulled from their temporary file.

Her brain had calmed long enough to pick a topic to commit to. She was sketching out their wedding night when the washing machine ground to a halt before the cycle was complete. Sydney groaned: this was the single reason that she hated doing their laundry. She absentmindedly thought that they needed a new set of appliances, but remembered a fraction of a second later that she wouldn't be living there for much longer (hopefully). Rising from her comfortable position she crossed to the uncooperative contraption.

"Why won't you work, you stupid piece of crap?" She demanded of the inanimate object, kicking the side of it and hitting the control panel at the same time. Frowning at it she added, "You never do this for anyone else! Why aren't you as nice to me as you are to Michael? _I bought you, damn it_!"

"You know, they say talking to yourself is the first sign of insanity."

"They also say that about watching FOX, but does that seem to stop anybody?" She shot back without thinking. Syd was still half in her dream state, so it took her a few seconds to realize that she'd just had a verbal exchange with someone and the washer _hadn't_ been talking back to her. Whipping around to face the doorway, her eyes widened and she gasped in disbelief. "Michael?" She managed to croak; her throat had suddenly gone as dry as Death Valley.

He was leaning nonchalantly against the wooden doorframe in his casual-yet-dressy clothes, admittedly worn for her benefit and her benefit alone: her favourite black leather jacket, frayed jeans, threadbare t-shirt, and yes, there was the holster going up around his shoulder. An arm that had been hidden in the hallway appeared and brandished a bouquet of long-stemmed…lollipops? She tripped over herself in her rush to reach him and flung her arms around his neck in a grip akin to a chokehold. The force of the length of her body colliding with his sent him stumbling backwards into the wall of the hallway. She began a savage assault on his lips, neck, throat, any patch of exposed skin that she could reach, and he laughed as she let her tongue trail along his jawbone.

"Miss me much?"

Pausing in her attack, she took his head in her hands and looked him square in the eyes. "You have no idea."

He laughed again and regretfully stopped her roving lips and hands. Offering her the bouquet, she merely tossed the novelty items onto the floor, and they shattered as they clattered to the hard wood. She hesitated for a moment, her dreamy mind captivated by the way the candy pieces glittered like broken crystal in the lake of light they had been cast into. Taking advantage of her momentary disillusionment, Michael steered her into their bedroom and to their bed, still grinning like a madman. His travel bag was sitting neatly next to the dresser, shoes standing guard in front of them.

Her disbelief melted away as he tugged the journal out from under the mattress, and she asked the question that had been nagging in the back of her mind since she first saw him in the doorway. "Why are you here? I though you were still supposed to be in Paris."

"What, you don't want me here? 'Cause if you don't, I could always hitchhike my way back. Somehow."

Wrapping her arms about his middle, Sydney pulled herself closer as he began to read her most recent entry. "I wouldn't trade this for anything in the world. But how the hell did you manage it? I mean, my father couldn't exactly have been the most compliant person to work around."

He sniggered quietly as he read over the mention of her father. "Well," He answered, slightly preoccupied, "let's just say that Will is awesome, Weiss is a god, and we owe Dixon big-time."

Sydney couldn't help but laugh, muffling her sound with his chest. "And why might that be? I hope you didn't promise him our first-born child, Michael, because I already did to Francie; retribution for putting up with us all these years."

Michael chuckled shortly, breezing through her mess of muddled rhymes and securing the covers yet again. "No, nothing like that; just a good, home-cooked meal for him and his family. I suggest you call on Francie for another cuisine-related favour; we still have our second-born's life to bargain with, you know." She looked at him expectantly, waiting for a real explanation as to his presence. "Alright! Weiss was getting annoyed at me for incessantly complaining about missing you, so he asked Will to concoct a phony mission for Dixon and me to go on. Dixon actually flew to Paris while I…flew somewhere else."

"Where?" She pried warily.

Blushing slightly, he looked away. "Montana." She laughed and wrinkled her nose, dimples practically concaving her cheeks. "What? I've never been! And I never will go again. Do you know how incredibly boring it is to sit in an airport for five hours, entertaining yourself with only a straw wrapper and the lid of a Snapple jar?"

She gestured flatly to her barren room. "I can imagine."

He exhaled sharply through his nose and wrapped his arms around her spooned form. "Well, at least you have Will, Francie, and Weiss to keep you company. I had said Snapple cap and wrapper."

Syd sighed wistfully as a watered-down film of sorrow slid over her eyes. "Not really. They've all been avoiding me like the plague. Weiss is following Francie around like a lost puppy; Will's either been working or forcing Weiss to a bar to help him pick up chicks; and Fran…All she talks about is the wedding. It's amazing: after an entire year of engagement she still hasn't run out of things to plan or organize or beat me over the head with repeatedly."

"Are you kidding me? She's still going on about _our_ wedding?"

"Like a dog after a bone! Her enthusiasm has not diminished in the slightest." She sighed once again and laid her head back down on his chest. Opening her mouth to say something, she suddenly froze; a lock and a catch had clicked once respectively from the front of the apartment. Her last breath burned in her lungs for a solid minute after the noise ceased as she listened for any signs of an intruder. Michael was oblivious to everything, adding to her growing doubt about the actuality of the noise; maybe it was just her overactive imagination providing a reality check for their perfection. She mentally shrugged it off as his hand traveled up her bare arm to cup her shoulder. "Sometimes I just wish we could skip the wedding, do away with all of this mess. Get right to the honeymoon, you know?"

Syd's smiling eyes met Michael's serious face. She could practically see the wheels turning inside his head, his thought process evolving and hatching a plan right before her. "What if we could?"

"What are you talking about?" She asked circumspectly, her eyes narrowed to slits.

His eyes were ablaze with excitement, joy, and passion. He sat up on the bed and turned to face his fiancée, who was still lying down, façade a mix of confusion and caution. "Just think! We can get away from all of this crap and just…be together."

"No, Vaughn!" She exclaimed, ignoring his involuntary wince as she used his last name. Also sitting up she continued, "No! Whatever you're thinking about doing, I'm not going to help you."

He sighed and shook his head dismissively. "It's nothing bad, Syd. Completely the opposite, even." Michael took her hands in his, clasping them together into a mass of flesh, bones, and muscle. He gazed directly into her brown orbs, using the same stare he used on their first date in France, a small smile lilting the corner of his mouth. "Let's go to Las Vegas. Let's go to Vegas and get married."

Her eyes widened to the size of dinner plates and she blinked in disbelief. "What?"

"Vegas, Syd! Let's go to Vegas and get married in one of those little chapels."

"Are you on something?"

"I am completely clean. Not even a trace of jetlag."

"Are you sick? Do you have a fever? You feel a little warm, I think you have a fever."

"I'm not sick, Sydney! This is a completely plausible idea. And an attractive one, if I do say so myself."

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"We are not getting married at the Bedrock Wedding Chapel dressed as Fred and Wilma Flinstone."

"There _are_ other places to get married besides cheap, themed circuses."

"We can't just go without telling everyone! We need to make plans, call for reservations, research the best chapel…"

"Why hello, Francie. Since when did your spirit inhabit my fiancée's body?"

"But—" Sydney started, turning her back to him as she thought of a tenable argument. Why was she fighting this so valiantly? Wasn't she the one who hinted at doing something like that in the first place? The more she thought about it, turned it over and over in her brain, the more the idea was starting to grow on her. Francie wouldn't be there to obsess over the exact position of every flower or the song list of the DJ; Weiss wouldn't be lounging around, tossing out his characteristically blunt sarcastic and withering comments at the most inopportune times. Her father wouldn't be glaring the Death Glare at Michael from his seat; and her mother couldn't feel any more proscribed than anyone else. The part of her that was protesting at the picket lines was slowly dissolving, giving way to Michael and the fire hoses. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea…

"So? What to you say?"

She shifted to face him, her breath coming in deep, slow drags as she affirmed and reaffirmed her decision in her head. "All right. Let's go."

***

Driving through the desert during the hours of twilight and dusk only served to jumpstart Sydney's imagination again. After hastily throwing a change of clothes each into a single overnight bag, the pair flew to Vaughn's pick-up truck (they were planning to drive back into the desert, park on the side of the road, and enjoy their wedding night to the fullest extent) and took off in the general direction of Las Vegas. They'd only actually driven to the gambling capitol of the world once: on a road trip with Will and Francie when they were still going out. Fran had been driving, and neither of them had been paying particularly close attention to their route…This time, though, she was soaking up her surroundings while the soft jazz/blues of B.B. King, Ella Fitzgerald, and even Kenny G. floated through the speakers on the dashboard.

The sun was only a finger's width above the smooth horizon, barely a sliver of orange peeking out from under the sandy covers. It was the time of day when staring at the sun sent a thrill of warmth around one's eyeballs instead of the stinging sensation one would receive from the midday sun. The windows were rolled all the way down, allowing the rapidly cooling air to whip around inside, warming itself before careening back out as if from a slingshot. The serene sand acted as a mirror, reflecting the picturesque artwork of the sky back up into the heavens, doubling the joy it gave off. Stratums of yellow, pink, orange, blue, purple, and black were layered one upon another, blended as if on an artist's palate so that no meeting or parting was obvious. It gave a sense of seamless transitioning, calm, and overall peace.

But soon the last ray of natural light flickered out over the horizon and died, giving way to the barrage of stars that dotted the sky like the headlights of galactic cars. They twinkled and winked at her through the windshield, open windows, back of the cab…all around. The night fell upon them so slowly that when it reached its totality, neither of them noticed; each was too absorbed in the other to care much about anything else.

They were holding hands. It was the simplest of gestures, but yet a few years ago neither of them would have dared to try. Now there they were, snuggling in his car, dressed as themselves, on their way to elope in Las Vegas. They were light-years away from the agent-handler partnership that had aided greatly in the takedown of all the SD cells across the world. And, God, was she glad that they were.

She sighed happily as she shifted to stretch out across the bench, laying her head down on his right thigh and looking out of the windshield at the stars, feeding off of their camaraderie and romance. "I love you."

Syd could sense his grin as his hand alighted upon her brow, stroking back her hair gently. "I love you too, baby, but I don't know how long I can stand you laying like that"

It was her turn to grin stupidly. She grabbed their duffel bag from under the seat and placed it between her head and his lap. Settling back down she chided, "Is that better, you horn ball?"

"No," He answered honestly, risking a glance downwards. "You're so beautiful. Do I tell you that enough?"

Her cheeks burned as she averted her eyes back up to the sky. She never knew just how to respond to his blunt and frequent compliments; perhaps that was why he'd asked her to hold off on the guardian angel thing. Chuckling inwardly, she shook her head: neither of them could take a compliment.

"What?"

Michael had noticed her silent musings. The shake of her head was more pronounced this time as she dismissed his question. Her eyes gravitated back towards the ever-increasing amount of stars, beginning to compete with an artificial glow on the horizon in front of them. "We're not drunk, are we?"

"No." His voice held a twinge of amusement, but she didn't care.

"And we're not drugged?"

"I hope not."

"There's no gun to my head?"

"If there is, it's invisible. Or really, really small."

"Neither of us is dying from some disease?"

"Unless you know something that I don't, no."

"My dad isn't planning on sending you to Tibet for a year?"

"Not to my knowledge. Look, Syd…" Michael tore his eyes away from the road in front of him to gaze into the face he wanted to spend the rest of his life waking up next to. "Are you have second thoughts about this?"

"No!" She answered, a bit too quickly and inflected for his taste. He frowned at her, prompting a more honest response. "I just — I always envisioned my wedding day when I was a little girl, and it looked nothing like this."

"You were the one who wanted a way out!" He cried. "But if you really don't want to do this, we can turn around and head back to LA, or we could go to Vegas, get a room for the night, and call everyone to make sure they haven't all gone into cardiac arrest—"

"I _know_ I was the one who wanted this," She interrupted, gluing her eyes to his brow. His wrinkles had broken out again — ones she hadn't seen in at least a year — and she reached up to smooth them with her thumb. "Which is why I want to keep going. We can have a real wedding later. Right now…all I want is to be introduced to the world as Mrs. Michael Vaughn."

He smiled in relief. "There's nothing more I'd love than to make you Mrs. Michael Vaughn."

They simmered into amiable silence as the last tremulous note of the CD waned and turned off, automatically switching to the radio. A familiar and ironic tune met their ears.

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"I'm goin' to the chapel and I'm gonna get married…"

Almost instantaneously, laughter filled the cab of the pick-up as the old song continued, the knobs of the radio untouched by its convulsing tenants. After a minute or so, Sydney had the presence of mind to switch it off, as they were entering the city, and the last thing they needed was to get into an accident on account of Michael laughing so hard he cried.

As Sydney sat upright, an onslaught of sights and sounds invaded her senses. The harsh neon and artificial lights stung her eyes and made them tear; they were a stark contrast from the soft, candle-like luminescence in the desert. It was definitely louder: all the sounds a car could make (from clunking to screeching to honking), snippets of lounge acts through open doors, and many, many conversations. The change was disconcerting and overwhelming, making Sydney feel as if she were an ant in the middle of a large family reunion picnic. She subconsciously shrunk back against Michael, who simply smiled and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, bringing her even closer to him.

The first wedding chapel that looked as if it _didn't_ have a crazy theme (or involved Elvis at some point) was granted their service. Wally's Wacky Wedding World was a small — but respectable — add-on to one of the larger hotel/casinos near the outskirts where they had entered. Shifting the pick-up into park Michael sighed heavily, letting his hands fall into his lap. "Well…This is it. Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

Sydney met his eyes and covered his hands with hers. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

Neither knew who smiled first, but their combined wattage was almost as powerful as the many spotlights beaming into the well-lit sky. He pocketed the keys, scooped up their bag, slid out his side, and raced around the front of the car to open her door for her. The blush crept back into her cheeks as she took his hand and stepped out of the taller vehicle. Together, they walked hand in hand to the chapel's entrance. Michael opened the door for her, but when she stepped inside, she saw something that made her stop in her tracks, causing him to run smack into her. 

There, in the reception/lobby area, were Eric Weiss, Francine Calfo, and Will Tippin sitting in chairs with cheap, moldy cushions.

Weiss stood up as soon as they entered. "Well, well, well! Fancy meeting you two here! What brings you to these parts?"

The couple's jaws dropped simultaneously. (Michael's grip on the duffel bag weakened as well, and gravity did the rest.) Neither could believe their eyes, and Sydney even blinked stupidly a few times to make sure that hers were working properly. She was the first to dust off her voice box. "What the hell…How did you…Why did you…Huh?"

Francie laughed as she, too, rose. "Nice to see that after eight years of college, you still have the vocabulary of a five-year-old with the mouth of Eric." Her boyfriend shot her a look but she ignored him.

Michael reclaimed the bag, clasping his fiancée's hand tighter as Will stood up as well. "What she meant to ask was what the hell are you guys doing here?"

"We found you out!" Weiss replied in a singsong voice. Will quickly stuck out his tongue.

"How?" Syd and Michael inquired together.

"Let's just say that, unfortunately for us, your bedroom is not soundproof." Weiss raised his eyebrows, ensuring that they understood the double entendre. When neither of them looked particularly enlightened he continued, "Fran got tired of literally dragging me to all the tux rentals in the state of California, so we went back to your place again. When I saw that Mike's old beater was in your driveway, I figured he'd gotten back from his 'mission', but Fran insisted on grabbing a different pair of shoes before heading out again. That's when we heard you talking about your little eloping excursion. And subsequently decided to follow you; you know, keep you two crazy kids from doing something you'll regret later."

As if on cue, Francie stepped closer to her best friend. "How dare you try to skip out on your own wedding? I've spent a year — _a year _— planning and organizing everything for you, and this is how you repay me?! Some kind of friend you are, not allowing the most important friend in her life the pleasure of seeing her marry the guy of her dreams, and — best of all — be the over-bearing best friend who obsesses over everything! Please, Syd, don't go through with this. Come home so we can do it right."

Syd sighed heavily and leaned her body against Michael's for support. He squeezed her hand and she felt him smile down at the top of her head, infusing thoughts into her brains: thoughts of mirth, sarcasm, and most of all love. She took a deep, cleansing breath before she answered. "Fine. Let's go home. If all of you are so dead-set again our wedding at Wally's Wacky Wedding World—"

"Yes!"

"—Then let's go."

They all made a move for the door but Michael still stood in its metal frame, blocking it. "You still never fully explained how you found us. How did you know we'd go here?"

Weiss and Francie both looked at Will. "Your father," He answered simply, shrugging his shoulders. "He's got one huge-ass collection of connections."

"Otherwise he wouldn't be my father," Syd muttered under her breath. Raising her voice she added, "And where is he now? Please don't tell me he's in the actual chapel waiting to see if you couldn't stop us."

"Nope. He's waiting in the car."

The duffel bag dropped again, but Michael made no move to pick it up. "You're kidding. I guess this rules out staying in Vegas for the night."

Weiss rolled his eyes. "No really. Like Mister I've-Got-A-Stick-So-Far-Up-My-Ass-That-It's-Poking-My-Brain is going to give us a day off just because we had to stop his daughter from eloping! And anyway," He added, looking directly at his best friend, "if we had to drive three hours through rush hour traffic with _Sydney Bristow's father_, I think we deserve some nice, calming, asleep-at-the-wheel action. Now I know where she got her crazy driving skills from, Mike."

"But not all of us can fit in my truck, Eric—"

"Oh we'll fit, all right. We'll fit if I have to sit on your lap while you drive. I am _not_ riding with Spy Daddy for one more minute!"

"Fine!" Michael snapped, snatching the bag and throwing it roughly at his friend. "Get in the damn car!" All three of the intruders filed eagerly out of the door, Eric already on his cell phone telling Jack that their 'mission' was accomplished. He turned to Sydney with a mixture of sadness and disappointment in his eyes. "I'm sorry, baby. I know you wanted this just as much as I do."

She shrugged dismissively, leading him out of the chapel and towards his vehicle. "Ah, it's okay. Maybe it's better this way; maybe we weren't supposed to get married like this. Maybe every major milestone in our lives together is supposed to include fanfare and pomp and circumstance." He laughed shortly as he dug his keys out of his pocket. "Oh, and by the way," She added slyly. "I'll take up Weiss's offer of sitting on your lap. I'm sure you'd enjoy me much more, anyway."

Somehow they all fit in the small cab; well, Will was forced into the truck's bed, then Syd felt sorry for him and followed, and Francie joined them, then Michael kicked Eric into the back for messing with the radio stations too much. From the back, Syd could see an insignificant black shape tailing them down the desert road at a distance. And in her heart, she was comforted.


	2. The Second Attempt

Different Shade of Normal: Spy Bride

****

Chapter 2: The Second Attempt

Syd and Michael's attempt at eloping only served to make the Bristow/Vaughn/Calfo household fill with anxiousness and anxiety. A good two months had passed after their excursion, and their friends were still going on about it like it was high treason committed only the day before. Instead of backing off, Francie only spurred herself onwards, making more lists than ever. She had notified Sydney of the various meetings she had set up with flower shops and dress fittings with tailors. Will was all too cocky for his own good; Michael had admitted to Sydney that he had thought of calling in some of his not-so-nice connections more than once. And Weiss…He just thought this whole situation was the funniest thing in the world. He also didn't mind ensuring that they knew that fact.

Another truly unfortunate byproduct of their jaunt was the "sudden and inexplicable" increase in mission frequency. Sydney was almost positive that her father was responsible. Since the incident, Jack Bristow had taken to sitting beside his daughter at debriefs, hoping to deter Michael from her, and resorted to scowling at him when he realized that Sydney had _two_ sides. During those meetings, the elder Bristow would contradict everything his daughter's fiancé suggested without prejudice, not caring if his accusations were unfounded or not. After those frustrating gatherings, Michael and Sydney would often shuffle over to her desk while he skulked and complained to her about her father's behavior. About the middle of his rant was when Jack would silently appear behind his only child, challenging the younger agent with a look of pure loathing. Then he would commence in wishing Sydney a good night or some similarly bland phrase of parting, and with a lasting glance of sheer despise thrown over his shoulder at Michael, he would leave with his head held high, a good day's work completed.

Needless to say, it was all wearing on Sydney's nerves.

Again.

Now add to that it was late December, and she rarely got home in time to dart to her window and bask in her beloved afternoon light. Instead, she'd had to settle with laying on his side of the bed until she got hungry enough to eat; and then right afterwards she'd plant herself in the same spot, only this time Donovan would follow.

Michael and Donovan had essentially moved in with her. She honestly didn't know why he still kept paying rent for his old apartment; he only kept the largest pieces of furniture there, anyway. At first, Sydney had to adjust to having a dog around; she'd never had any pets during her childhood, and having an animal constantly underfoot was a slight change. But the sweet old dog was a wonderful addition to the household and was truly good company, especially when his male master was away on a "trip" as he was that day.

So she and Donovan were stretched out on Michael's side of the bed, his round belly warming her feet as she read her fiancé's latest entry in their wedding journal. While she had been doing recon in Sydney, Australia (someone had one twisted sense of humour), he'd had a day alone in the apartment with a pen and the journal. Sydney shifted her feet slightly — causing the dog to grumble in his slumber — while she untied the now-fraying red ribbon and turned past the joint entry they had written after their interrupted getaway.

__

'This isn't fair.

'That's the only way I can describe this.

'I've had to put up with many things — many byproducts of my relationship with her — but this one tops them all. I've had to put aside my feelings toward Irina Derevko (don't worry, Syd, we've already discussed that); the fact that I have sleepless nights of two varieties now (only one of them being good), that the next time I see her it might be in a body bag. I've risked my life on more than one occasion for her, and I've even endured Eric's never-ending taunts, sexual innuendo, and pure crap. All because I love her so much.

'But I don't know if I can take this one.

'I don't know if I can take Jack Bristow glaring at me literally behind Syd's back, or his contradictions to everything I say, even if it's just 'hello.' I don't know if I can handle waiting for Jack Bristow to just step up to my desk one day and shoot me in the face. Or poison my coffee. Or put a bomb in my car.

'The anticipation is just killing me.

'What? How do I know he wants to? Oh, come on. That's the dumbest question I've ever heard me ask myself!

'I see the cogs turning in his brain. It's all written in those tiny black eyes: he wants to beat me to a bloody pulp.

'Do I mind? As long as Sydney doesn't carry the Vaughn-hating gene, I will learn to be content with the world.

'Sydney…Now, I know you wanted to keep all entries impersonal, just as if we were talking to a complete stranger, but I can't. I hardly get to talk to you as it is; when I do, it's mostly me complaining about your father, and seeing as I've already done that…I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm breaking the rules one more time. This has officially turned into a sappy love letter.

'I love you. I just can't say that enough. The possibility that I could say it to you when we wake up in the same bed, when we eat lunch, before we go to sleep…it boggles my mind. Almost every day for two years I though that it could never happen, that it was a meaningless pipe dream doomed to stay that way for eternity. But when we kissed for the first time after the takedown…It was as if I had opened my eyes for the first time only to see Van Gogh's "Starry Night" or I had just regained my hearing in time to listen to Vivaldi's "Four Seasons". Like I had just finished my favourite book only to discover that another chapter had suddenly been tacked on to the end. That's the only way I can describe it.

'And I miss you. I miss waking up at three AM because you've been watching me sleep; I miss hearing you say my name (even if it is Vaughn instead of Michael); and I miss your touch. Your sweet, simple touch, whether it be a hand on my arm, a finger on my cheek, or…in the more intimate sense. To quote that strange Heath Ledger movie you and Francie like so much: "I have seen the new moon but not you. I have seen sunsets and sunrises, but nothing of your beautiful face…I miss you like the sun misses the flower. Like the sun misses the flower in the depths of winter. Instead of beauty to direct its light to, the heart hardens like the frozen world your absence has banished me to." I like directing my light to you, Sydney. It's **fun.**

'So before this gets too mushy and I give in to the urge to rip this out and burn it, I'll wrap up. I'll close by saying two things:

'One: I love you.

'Two: I can't wait to make you Mrs. Michael Vaughn.'

Oh God.

How was she supposed to respond to that? It was just like his proposal: it took her a Texas minute to unstick her jaw and restring her vocal cords, let alone answer him. Again with the compliments! Why did he have to keep doing that? _'There was a reason we decided on **impersonal** entries, damn it!'_They were going to have to stop if they wanted to look one another in the eyes without blushing ever again. Their choices were: A) learn to live without compliments or b) accept that they were completely in love and not care. Sydney decided on the latter, not really knowing if she could give up his incessant commendations.

But now what? He'd just made this blatant declaration of love and she had no way of responding: he was on a mission (a real one this time) with Dixon in Brazil. The man was completely unreachable, even if she had her father on her side _and_ in a good mood.

Or so she thought.

Phones throughout the apartment began ringing in various pitches at various times, creating a rippling affect that started in the kitchen and ended up in the laundry room. Syd heard them through her closed door, but figured that someone else in the house would pick it up. After three rings, though, she gently removed her feet from under Donovan's belly and padded towards the laundry room. When she was about three feet from the doorway, Francie suddenly darted out of her room and barreled down the hall to Syd's destination, not seeming to see her best friend. She was clad in a fluffy pink bathrobe and her hair was more than slightly disheveled, disinclining Sydney from peeking into her bedroom. As Syd braced herself in the doorway, Francie picked up between the fourth and fifth ring.

"Hello?" Her best friend paused with her back to Sydney, running a hand through her thick black curls. Abruptly her head rolled back, and she faced the doorway to yell, "Syd! It's Michael! Oh!" She caught sight of her friend, not four feet in front of her. "Here ya go."

"How do you know?" She questioned, taking the receiver from her.

"'Joey's Pizza?'" She replied mockingly before stalking back to her bedroom.

Syd laughed heartily before lending her ear to the phone. _"¡Hola! ¿Cómo usted es, mi amor?"_

A groan met her enthusiastic greeting. "No more Spanish, Syd. I've been listening to it all day. The things people say when they think you can't understand them!"

She stretched the cord over to her bay window and curled up against the cool windows. This alley was one of the few alleys in Los Angeles that didn't have a streetlight at its pinnacle, so it was as dark as black satin compared to the glowing sky. Sighing she asked, "Where the hell are you?"

"About a hundred miles down the Amazon River, trying my best not to reenact a bad scene from 'Anaconda'."

"So what, you've got Jennifer Lopez on a boat with you?"

"Uh, yeah! Don't you have Ben Affleck in bed?"

"No, but I've got an Italian _bull_ named Donovan waiting for me naked in my room."

Michael made a noise that could have been easily mistaken for a sharp melodramatic swear. "I knew I shouldn't have let you stay alone with him! He's seduced every one of my former girlfriends. That guy's gotten more action than I have!"

"Aw, poor baby. Remind me to scratch you behind the ears when you get home." The couple sank into a companionable silence, Syd trying in vain to ignore the ever-present sound of motorists in every colourful mood. A question sprung forth from her lips before she had a chance to sensor it. "Why are you calling? My father will kill you if he finds out that you've been calling his only daughter while on a mission for the CIA."

The sound was faint, but she could hear him shift uncomfortably in his seat and bite down on a chapped lower lip. "I just wanted — I just wanted to know if…If you read the, um, the, uh—"

"Yes," His fiancée replied gently, positive that her smile had been drawn on with permanent marker, "I read your entry, Michael."

"And…W-what did y-you think…?"

"I love you, too, Michael, my guardian angel," She murmured into the phone, wishing it were his ear instead. Before he could reprimand her for using "those words" she added, "And stop stuttering: you wouldn't want Ms. Lopez thinking you were as giddy as a schoolboy, now, would you?"

"Syd…" She could tell that he was trying to be serious, so she sobered up quickly. "I meant everything I wrote. I know I'm not as good with words as you, but—"

"Michael!" She cried, not allowing self-doubt to permeate her love's voice any longer. "Your words were perfect. It was perfect. _You_ are perfect." She could hear the blood rushing to his cheeks, and her dimples turned into canyons. "Is there anything that I can do to…I don't know…make it up to you?"

He replied simply, "When I get home, I better find you naked."

"Well, that's a given. Anything else?"

"Just…" He paused, presumably to find the right words to voice his thoughts. "Be yourself. That's all that I could ask for." Her mouth issued a throaty moan that only he caused, but before she could respond he added quickly, "Syd, I have to go. Hopefully, I'll see you soon. I love you, Sydney."

"More than words can say," She whispered, picturing his form in the corner of a cargo plane, windowless van, or make-shift raft talking on his cell phone and attempting to keep his conversation as private as the space allowed. There was a click as he hung up, and she rose with purpose and crossed the room to do the same.

She'd decided something.

Sydney had gotten the idea into her head that this kind of behavior deserved to be rewarded in some way, shape, or form.

Walking back to her room, she was met at the open door by Donovan, who was undoubtedly confused as to where she'd been for the past half-hour or so. Both of them strolled back to the bed (Sydney on her side and the bulldog on his master's) and settled down to turn in early. Reaching up to switch off the light, she snuggled down into her pillow and hugged the covers to her body.

Tomorrow, she'd call in a favour from Weiss.

* * *

The only reason Sydney Bristow liked the early hours of the morning was the potential possibility of waking up next to Michael. As there were no sultry green orbs boring into her upon regaining consciousness, it wasn't a "good" sunrise. Donovan was already up, and he eagerly swiped a rough tongue over her cheek before she had a chance to push him off the bed. Groaning, she wiped the stinky saliva off her face with the back of her hand and narrowed her eyes at the creature. "Are you channeling Michael or something? Or is it really true that you get more action than him?" His only response was to flop down on the floor belly up, enticing her with his doggy charms to scratch his stomach. She shook her head, bewildered and muttered, "You're incorrigible," before leaving her room to get breakfast.

Trying to make as little noise as possible, Syd poured herself a bowl of cereal, switched on the coffee machine, and took a seat at the dining room table instead of the bar. She kept the heavy hangings tightly drawn, not wishing the glare of the sun off the windows across the street to pervade the room just yet. Donovan, who had given up on the idea that his soon-to-be mistress would return and lavish him with affection, trotted through the kitchen and into the dining room to act as a pair of slippers on her feet again. Tuning out the incessant drip of the coffee, she began idly toying with her spoon, childishly making shapes in the milk with the round o's before gobbling them up.

And she began to think.

If one had asked her what she thought _about_, though, he or she would have received a lie.

She honestly had no idea what was running through her head. Her attention had divided itself and she was multitasking without even knowing it. While she was going through the motions of eating, one layer of her consciousness was "thinking" about something, and yet another was relaxing or possibly even still sleeping. The latter part of her brain never fully woke up until she had her morning coffee cradled between her palms…or Michael.

Snapping her back to reality, Donovan grunted in his sleep, alerting her to the fact that, yes indeed, the floorboards had shifted; someone else was in the room. Looking up from her half-eaten breakfast, Syd saw a sleepy and bathrobe-clad Weiss stumble into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes with the butt of his palm. She watched as he tugged open the refrigerator, grabbed a bagel, and savagely tore into it before even noticing her.

"Happy freakin' Saturday," He mumbled, beginning to bang about in the cupboards for a mug. Finally stumbling upon them, Weiss extracted two and poured coffee into each. He took a long gulp of the steaming liquid and smiled dreamily.

"You have to go in today, don't you?"

The smile disappeared and turned into a scowl as he collapsed in a chair across from his friend, sliding the other mug across the worn surface. "Unfortunately. I'm helping Will process some walk-in's info on some bad guy's evil doings. It's probably just some false lead from a bunch of seventeen-year-olds with nothing to do." He accidentally kicked Donovan under the table, but the dog only grunted and shifted to cover more of Sydney's feet. "You know, I swear that dog likes you more than Mike."

A grin tugged at a corner of her mouth. "Is that so incredibly hard to believe, Weiss? Am I that difficult to get along with?"

"Yes," He answered without hesitation, facial muscles twitching from suppressing a smile. Staring into the depths of his drink, he sobered and quietly said, "You two — or three, whenever Donnie decides to get off his fat ass — are so good together. _You fit._ Do not think we don't see it, 'cause we do. You're the best thing that's ever happened to him, you know that, right? Well, besides me, of course; that's a given."

Syd laughed shortly before taking a long drag from her own mug of black coffee. "Eric, don't get all sappy on me, now; save some for your Best Man Speech."

"And when exactly will I get to _give_ this speech?" Weiss asked pointedly; he seemed to have woken up in the few short minutes they'd been talking. "Kendall really _is_ starting to feel sorry for you two: he's starting to take longer to process Jack's mission requests for the two of you."

She sighed heavily, letting the air escape from her lungs slowly and meditatively. "I don't know, Eric," Syd replied in muted exasperation, running a hand over her suddenly haggard face. "We hardly ever get to see each other for two minutes, let alone the _entire day_ it takes to get married! And my father's being a stubborn ass about the whole thing—"

"You can say that again."

"I would, but I don't have the energy!"

"Well, if there's anything I can do," Weiss offered generously, "don't even hesitated to ask. I'm rootin' for ya, just like every warm-blooded man, woman, and child out there."

"Come to think of it, there is something." She'd remembered her decision from the night before, the way to repay Michael for everything that he'd done for her. _"Marry us."_

He gawked at her as if she'd suddenly sprouted an extra head and it was singing karaoke. "Rest assured, Sydney Bristow, that although I've had vast sex droughts in the past, I am in no way, shape, or form qualified to perform such a ritual."

Acting like she didn't hear him, she sat up straighter and leaned her elbows on the table, her face positively glowing in excitement. "I wasn't insulting you, Eric. I'm just _asking_ you if you could do this favour for us. It's been well over a year since we first got engaged; I think we've waited — and tortured you — long enough."

Weiss sighed in resignation; she knew he could never refuse her something when it involved his two best friends, a habit he had contracted from Michael for sure. "Fine. What do I have to do?"

Syd smiled triumphantly and settled back into her chair with her hands wrapped tightly around the ceramic mug. "All you have to do is go on-line and get ordained. Or contact a priest through email and get him to marry us over the Internet. People do it all the time on TV."

Frowning at her, he downed the rest of his coffee. "Does Mike know about this crazy scheme of yours?"

"Are you nuts?" She cried. "Why would I tell him a thing like that? Plus, I just thought it up last night. I really want this to be a surprise, Eric. Please don't tell anyone, especially Michael."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," He agreed begrudgingly.

Leaning across the table, Syd planted a kiss on her friend's cheek before clearing the table of her dishes. "You're the best, Eric. Now, Michael gets back on Monday, so I need you ready by then, and I'll get the space booked the nest time I get called in: probably later this afternoon."

"Why? Where's this shindig gonna take place?"

A sly grin laced across her lips like a charm on a necklace chain. "The warehouse, of course. It's only appropriate."

* * *

The first thing Sydney noticed about the warehouse was its smell; it didn't smell as musty and dusty as she remembered. Instead, the entire building was practically light and airy, as if it had been recently cleansed. Its scent belied its appearance, though: the concrete floor was still caked with years of dirt grunge under her feet. The hanging lamps in the rafters revealed the same sight as the first time she saw it, minus the fine layer of dust that had settled in the years past. To be frank, the warehouse had fallen into misuse and had been neglected since the takedown of SD-6; the few other double agents in the LA branch of the agency preferred cleaner places to meet with their handlers.

This thought sent a pang of guilt mixed with pity shooting through Sydney's heart. It had been the only place that she and Michael could interact with each other — actually _talk_ to and look at one another without fear of repercussion — for two entire years. It was the place where the logistics of taking down the international arms- and espionage-dealing corporation were mapped out. It was the place where he declared himself her ally, where she cried on his shoulder, where they shared stolen glances and touches that lasted a fraction of a second longer than they should have. And now…Now it just was.

Syd's shoes clacked dully upon the floor as she made her way to their usual cage. Sliding open the chain-link gate, she saw Weiss resting on a crate, typing away at a laptop that was precariously balanced on his knees. She almost laughed at her friend. His face was screwed up in concentration, and she was ninety-nine point nine percent positive that he was merely playing a game on-line. Clearing her throat from the doorway she greeted, "Hey."

He didn't even look up from the screen, which cast a glow of ever-changing colour and consistency upon his features. "What's up, Bristow? You ready? Where's the future Mr. Vaughn? Wait a second; he's Mr. Vaughn right now; marriage wouldn't change that—"

"Michael's not here yet," She interjected, settling down the familiar duffel bag on the floor next to Weiss's crate. She had booked a room for a Mr. and Mrs. Michael Vaughn for the night at the nearest hotel, and was not about to stop off at the apartment for a change of clothes.

"Well, where is he? He does know what's goin' on, right?" When Syd didn't respond, he looked up from the computer game, causing something fatal to occur and the screen to flash "game over". Sighing, he clicked out of the game, set it aside, and folded his hands in his lap. "You didn't tell him why he's coming here?" He asked incredulously. "Did you entice him with the promise of sex in the warehouse? 'Cause if he strolls in here wearing anything less than a full suit, all bets are off. Especially if there's a shoulder holster involved."

"Can said sex occur _after_ you marry us?"

"You two kids can knock yourselves out."

"Nice." Sitting down next to him on the crate to his right, she stared down at her own hands, running a finger in a circle around a very specific digit. "So, where're the rings?"

"Rings?" Weiss asked hesitantly, peering at her out of the corner of his eye. "I though you were supposed to get them!"

"What!" She exclaimed, jumping back up in front of him. "When did I say that? I told _you_ to get 'em!"

"And when did this 'conversation' take place?"

"How 'bout yesterday at two thirty when you stopped while passing my desk and asked if I had any double-A batteries in my drawers that you could use?"

"Oh, that." Grinning sheepishly, he began ransacking the briefcase at his feet and, when he didn't find what he was looking for, started digging in his pocket. Upon resurfacing, his hand clutched two plastic rings from cheap machines that only kids bothered to donate money to. Offering them to her (along with a large ball of lint) he explained, "There was a little plastic yo-yo that I wanted, but I got these instead, and I only had two quarters with me."

She gingerly extracted them from their fluffy bed and sighed in resignation. "I guess these'll have to do. Although I have no idea how we're going to get them to fit."

"They're adjustable! See!" To prove his point, he took back the lousy excuses for jewelry and pulled apart the plastic, creating a gap between the two ends. "There ya go. Good as new."

"What's good as new?" Michael was standing at the gate, leaning nonchalantly against a metal pole. Sydney immediately perked up, running to him and throwing her arms around his neck with the rings clenched tightly in her fist. "Hey baby," He mumbled into her neck, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her closer. "I though this was going to be just us two. I wore my shoulder holster for you."

Her eyes became smoky and heavy-lidded as she pulled away slightly so that her lips were next to his ear. "Keep it on: you'll need it later."

Separating fully, they both turned back to Weiss, who was clicking away again. "Good. I was afraid I was going to have to pry you two apart. Otherwise, I'd be forced to inform your father that two of the CIA's best agents had defiled a meeting place and that I could never set foot in there without getting a serious case of the heebie-jeebies."

"Wow," Michael chuckled, rewrapping an appendage protectively around Sydney's waist. "How long have you been saving that one up?"

"Oh, I don't know, forever. You guys haven't…you know…in here, have you?"

"Right where you're sitting."

"You or her?"

"Me."

"Ew!" Weiss exclaimed, jumping up with his laptop and sliding over a crate.

"That one two, buddy."

"Gross," Eric mumbled in a tone that indicated he knew his best friend was probably lying, but wasn't willing to risk it. "Supervision. Constant supervision. _That's_ what you two horn balls need." Relocating to yet another crate, Sydney bit down on her lip to keep from telling him the truth about that crate as well. "So, shall we get on with this so I can hurry up and take a bath in acid? My skin's starting to crawl."

"Wait a second," Michael interrupted, dropping his arm and folding his hands in front of him. "_Kendall_ excused me from a meeting with Jack, Marshall, Dixon, and the analysts so that I could 'get done what needs to be done so that everyone doesn't go crazy.' Would someone like to explain to me why Kendall's being downright civil to me? And what exactly needs to get done?"

Sydney and Eric glanced at one another anxiously, wondering which of them should spill their real intentions. After a silent conversation, he pulled Michael to stand next to him as Sydney strolled back to the gate, waiting expectantly in the opening. Abandoning the laptop on the crate, he rose to stand next to his best friend, elbow on his shoulder as he whispered a hurried explanation. Upon finishing, he backed away with an unsure expression lifting one of his eyebrows. Syd responded with raised eyebrows of her own as she waited for Michael's reaction.

When he turned around, Michael's façade had a thoughtful glimmer as he contemplated the change in events. "Syd," He began, meeting her gaze unblinkingly, "why didn't you tell me? I would have liked to be in on this!"

A little taken aback she replied, "Well, I wanted it to be somewhat of a surprise, although we did ask Kendall to get you out of that meeting."

"Why here?" He asked incredulously. "Why not someplace with a heater? Or at least somewhere cleaner?"

"It's not like you two could get hitched in the bullpen at the Ops Centre," Weiss interjected matter-of-factly. "The observatory is closed on Mondays, and the pier would be kinda weird, don't you think? I mean, it being the middle of December and all."

"Good point."

"Plus," Sydney added, resting a temple against the cool metal of the pole, "this place almost belongs to us; it's _our_ warehouse. It was the site of so many happenings during the first two years of our acquaintance. I thought it only fitting that we get married here as well."

"So you weren't planning on having sex with me here tonight?"

"I was hoping that we could wait until _after_ we say 'I do.'"

"I second that motion. And now," Weiss announced, clapping his hands together like an overly-sweet kindergarten teacher, "places ladies and gentlemen, 'cause it's time for the main event!"

No one moved as they were already in their 'places'.

Weiss clicked the mouse on his laptop and a remix of "Canon in D" blared out of the speakers. Sydney began her procession towards the 'alter' (the crate Weiss was standing behind) without wavering her gaze from her fiancé's: they locked eyes and never deviated while she was crossing that five-foot gap. She reached him, and they linked arms while Weiss shut off the music and began scrolling down using the arrows on the keyboard.

"Ladies and gentlemen — scratch that; _lady_ and _gentleman _— we are gathered here today to join insert names here…Oops, sorry. Auto pilot, guys." Eric smiled sheepishly before continuing on. "We're gathered here to join Sydney Bristow and Michael Vaughn in not-so-holy matrimony. That is, unless you consider me an actual priest, in which case I'd have to kill you."

"Get on with it, Eric," The couple ordered simultaneously. He raised his hands defensively and continued on.

"If there is anyone present who can give reason as to why these two crazy, crazy, star-crossed people should not be wed, please speak now or forever hold your peace."

"Eric, does it look like there's anyone here to object?" Syd asked, slightly perturbed at his incessant random tangents.

"Speaking of which," Michael interjected pointedly. "Don't you need at least _two witnesses_ for one of these civil union things?"

"Yes," She remembered, turning to glare at Weiss, who had suddenly etiolated. "Did you look into this at all, Eric?"

Michael supplemented their dilemma by adding, "Do you even have the papers from the city so that this can be legal? A 'church' wedding means nothing without the documents to back it up."

"Well, this is what you get when your Master of Ceremonies isn't getting paid."

"Gah!" Sydney exclaimed, throwing up her arms in exasperation. "That's it! This little lame excuse for a ceremony is off!" Michael glared at her in disbelief and she added, "Yes, Michael, we're still engaged. It's just…How many times do we have to try to get married before it actually happens?"

Her fiancé smiled and slung a comforting arm around her shoulders. "As many times as it takes to get it right. Now, Weiss said something about a hotel room nearby?"

"You can go by yourself. I'm not in the mood."

"Oh, come on! We can torture Weiss by calling him right when—"

"I'm right here, man!"

"Fine. Let's go. But it won't be happy sex."

"That's cool. I'll take what I can get."

"Not a very attractive thing to say, Mike."

"Shut up, Eric."

**__**

TBC…


	3. The Third Attempt

Thanks to everyone who left feedback. Hope you enjoy!

*~*

Different Shade of Normal: Spy Bride

****

Chapter Three: The Third Attempt

Francie somehow found out about their second attempt at marriage. Although Sydney and Michael practically made Weiss swear in blood that he wouldn't tell a soul, pillow talk with his girlfriend had proved to be an impossible dragon to slay. As soon as she discovered their secret, she stormed into their room without any regard for their privacy. She lividly berated them for a solid fifteen minutes, failing to notice 'til the very end of her tirade that they were clutching at the sheets for dear life, upon which time she blushed, covered her eyes, and ran awkwardly out of the room.

After that strange encounter talk of gowns, flowers, and weddings in general decreased dramatically around the apartment. Even Weiss lay off them. Lists pinned to bulletin boards and stuck on the refrigerator door began mysteriously disappearing, leaving only dark patches to remind onlookers of their past presence. Phone calls reminding "Sydney Brisket" of her gown fitting or "Michael Vogan" of his tailoring session suddenly ceased, leaving the answering machine extremely lonely.

All of this made Sydney immensely suspicious. She found herself wondering on more than one occasion what was going on behind her back. Her only solace came from the fact that Michael also had absolutely no idea what their friends were up to. So they were wandering blindly together — not really, as they were still rarely side by side — through _very_ uncharted territory.

Jack Bristow had somehow found a way to increase their mission frequency even further. He must have had some idea of what went on the night Kendall excused Michael from their meeting, because the next day the fiancé found himself assigned on a two-week mission to Liberia. The young man was incensed but had no way of proving anything, so he had to remain silent and resort to daily phone calls to Sydney stolen during the middle of the night. She briefly entertained the notion of approaching her father, but was talked out of it by Michael; he didn't want their already dismal situation to deteriorate even further.

So Christmas passed without incident (Sydney was home while Weiss and Michael were in said Liberia) as did the New Year (both were overseas: Sydney in Sweden and Michael in Cambodia). The only complaining about their constant absence was surprisingly from Will. While Francie took it in stride, Will vehemently opposed every one of their trips, both at home and at work. This piqued Syd's interest even further; her male best friend had never been extremely vocal, especially in regards to her work: that was previously Francie's job. And now that he was, Sydney knew something was up.

She tried to weasel it out of Weiss on more than one occasion (once with cookies and the other with a cake), but he claimed to know absolutely nothing about anything — which she didn't disagree with. No one was talking, and since it was actually kind of pleasant not to think about the wedding, Sydney let everyone be for a time. She didn't let down her guard, but shoved her worries to the back of her mind and refused to deal with them while her environment was so serene.

And so it was during the second week of February. Mission requests and reconnaissance operations were few and far between that week, and ones that did float into the Ops Centre didn't require agents of Michael and Sydney's caliber. Another blue moon had come, there was a coming apocalypse, and snow had fallen in the Sahara: Sydney and Michael had almost an entire week alone. The first day was spent altogether in bed with the door closed and locked. The second day, they were quite literally dragged out of bed by Francie and sent into the bathroom to shower separately, the other baby-sat by a stern-looking Weiss. Then the couple was shoved out of the door and into the cool morning air. Shivering slightly, they climbed into his old pick-up tuck and just drove.

They ended up at the pier — _their_ pier — which was practically abandoned at that time of year. Hand in hand they walked down the middle of the wharf, shoes clunking against the sodden, rotting planks. Mottled grey sky frowned down upon them, the clouds ever shifting and molding, tumbling over one another to change the shade of grey from time to time. Where heavens kissed earth at the interminable horizon, they blended slightly as one grey bled into another, waves rolling and crashing, foam bubbling up and spray spitting into the air. Everything was slightly blurred around the edges as if seen through foggy glass or in a dream.

But the dreariness of the scene did not dampen the couple's spirits. They strolled to the end of the dock and sat on the wet lumber facing into the wind, which was galling at such a clip that it blew Sydney's still-damp hair straight back. Swinging their legs freely over the tumultuous waves, Sydney snuggled into Michael, feeding off his warmth. She smiled against his coat as his arm found its way around her shoulders and pulled her even closer, kissing the top of her head. They simply sat like that for a while, enjoying the other's presence despite the dark atmosphere.

"It seems like we're already married, doesn't it?"

Michael looked down upon his fiancée, slightly confused. "Hmm?"

She smiled back at him contentedly; she had slipped back into her overly imaginative state. "I mean, we've been engaged for almost two years, we haven't been exactly celibate for all that time, and those years we've known each other have been—"

"Action-packed?" He supplied. When she shrugged, he nodded and looked out over the ocean. "So in other words, we've been through enough crap in our relationship that we deserve to be married and left alone for the rest of our lives?"

"Something like that." Identical small smiles crept across their faces simultaneously, and they snuck peeks at each other out of the corners of their eyes.

"Yeah, well, maybe someday it'll happen. But I doubt it: Weiss and Kendall enjoy interrupting our happiness _way_ too much to leave us alone for long. And your father might just possibly bug our house."

"I wouldn't put it past him," She mused quietly, fingering something in an inside pocket of her jacket.

Michael noticed her movement and stared. "Speaking of bugs…Are you taping our conversation, dear?"

Sydney laughed fully and extricated the dilapidated blue journal and a pen from that pocket. "I snuck this out of the house before we were kicked to the curb. What do you say to another joint entry?"

He chuckled quietly and shook his head in bemusement. _"Tu es drole, mais je t'aime. Tu as mon coeur."_

"I know. I'm good, aren't I?" She slipped off the disintegrating ribbon and shoved it in her pocket as she settled the book in between them, trying to keep the dwindling paper mostly dry. He slid the pen from her grasp and wrote in his rigid, block lettering:

__

'I love you, Sydney Bristow.'

She frowned playfully and retook the pen. _'Keep it objective, dear. Remember, **impersonal**. And stop being sappy.'_

"Oh, you know you like it, Syd," He replied aloud as he grasped for the writing utensil. But she kept it tightly clutched in her grip, refusing to relinquish it just yet.

__

'Mr. Vaughn is now glaring at me quite unabashedly,' She wrote in loopy script. _'It's not a very becoming look for him, I must say. I much prefer him when he smiles that bashful smile: the one where he only lifts one corner of his mouth but somehow manages to display all of his flawless teeth. The epitome of perfection.'_ Abdicating the utensil at last, she smiled triumphantly and buried herself in his side.

__

'So that's the game we're playing, huh?' Michael wrote back. _'Well then…What I love most about Sydney Bristow is not her smile (although it makes me feel like the most important person in the world). It's not her warm, emotional chocolate eyes; nor her unequaled body (although it's damn fine). It's something you can't quite see unless she allows you to see it._

'It's her strength.

'Of course, there's the physical strength that I marvel at: she can kick my ass five ways from Sunday. But that's not what I mean. What I mean is her emotional strength. She can walk among the scourge of humanity — pretend to be one of their own — see death and destruction enough for fifty lifetimes and still remain whole. But what blows my mind is that she is somehow able to **smile** at the end of the day, to put that shit behind her and enjoy life to the fullest. She isn't constantly bogged down in a sea of sadness or wearing a cloak of despair. She has her moments, but I love those as well: I get to comfort her and bring her out of those bouts of depression. I thank whoever's listening every day that I'm the one who gets to do that.

'And that is what I love most about Sydney Bristow. **My** Sydney Bristow.'

Chuckling at a sudden thought she grabbed the pen back and hastily scribbled, _'Nice essay. Were you hoping for a little extra credit?'_

Locking onto her eyes, his hand latched onto her and guided it to write, _'Are you offering any?'_

She grinned slyly and penned, _'You're being personal, Mr. Vaughn. Strict first person, remember?'_

'But the question was personal! Are you above the rules that **you** came up with?'

'Damn straight.'

Michael calmly regained the utensil and stroked out, _'Alright then. For extra credit, I am willing to throw Miss Bristow over my shoulder, carry her to a secluded, deserted beach, throw her down upon the sand, and ravish her for hours. As the surf crashes around our merging bodies, I'll make her scream out my name so loudly that they'll hear her in China. How's that for extra credit?'_ He signed both of their names and capped the pen, sliding it into his own pocket for safekeeping.

She merely looked at him, her gaze unabashed surprise. "Remind me never to show this to our kids."

His eyes never faltered. "Well?"

"It's too cold, Michael! It's the beginning of February and the ocean never really gets above seventy degrees, anyway!"

__

"Well?" He insisted, his eyes drilling into her own with intense unbridled lust, passion, and love.

Feeling the blood rush to her cheeks and her skin turn to liquid from her legs upward she replied huskily, "Take me now, Mr. Vaughn."

***

"Get up! Get up, I say! Sheesh. You two are a couple of lazy bums. Don't make me drag Eric in here, 'cause then he'll moon your unconscious selves and it'll get all kinds of ugly _real_ fast!"

"Fran? It's only six AM! Go back to bed and leave me and Michael in peace!"

"Oh, sorry, can't. We're behind by fourteen hours! I need you up _right now_ before the bad luck starts kicking in."

"Francine! What the hell! Go away before I karate chop your ass twenty different ways."

"Eric! They _want_ you to moon them! Uh-huh. Right now. He's coming, guys. I'd kill myself if I were you."

"Fine! We're up!" Michael exclaimed, unwrapping his arms from around Sydney's waist as they sat up simultaneously, each trying to get their bearings on that early morning. Suddenly, pillows clapped down over each of their faces, rendering them sightless and practically unable to breathe. "What the hell! What are you doing, Francie?" He sputtered from behind the ball of fluff.

Sydney's pillow dropped from her face to reveal a comical sight. A fully dressed Francie was smothering a not-so-fully-dressed Michael with bedding while attempting to do the same to Syd. When she succeeded in failing at completing both tasks, she gave up on Syd and motioned for her friend to get dressed while she concentrated on Michael with her eyes squeezed shut. Sydney quickly finished dressing, afraid that her fiancé just might accidentally pummel her friend, and asked again about the early wake-up call. The pillow moved up and down, indicating that Michael was nodding in agreement.

"Everyone knows its bad luck for the groom to see the bride twenty-four hours before the wedding! And we're _fourteen hours_ behind! Since most of that was hopefully spent sleeping, though, I guess they'll let it slide. But come on! We've only got ten hours 'til your wedding!"

"What?" Both of them exclaimed at the same time, one voice slightly more muffled than the other. Sydney added, "What wedding? We're not getting married today. We didn't plan on this; we haven't organized anything."

"Correction," Francie said, "_you_ haven't organized anything. _I_ have, and so have Will and Eric. We were getting a little tired of you guys taking your sweet time with this so we took it into our own hands. You're getting married at four o'clock this afternoon at St. John the Baptist Church if we have to tie you to boards and plant you at the end of the aisle. Happy surprise wedding!"

Sydney stared at her friend in utter disbelief and had a suspicious feeling that her fiancé was, too. She knew her friend to be pushy at times, but this was downright controlling! To what extent had Francie planned this? Syd somehow knew that she wouldn't have to wait long to find out.

Weiss appeared abruptly in the doorway with a bored expression alighting upon his face. "You called, mistress?"

Francie swung into Controlling Best Friend Mode and used every last ounce of strength to muscle Vaughn back into a lying position on the bed. "Get him showered and dressed, pick up your tuxes, and get over to the church as fast as humanly possible."

"Does your schedule include regular feeding times? I mean, we do have ten hours: it's the least we can do for them."

His girlfriend merely growled at him and bared her teeth, eerily reminiscent of Donovan when someone tried to touch his doggie bowl with kibble still in it. While Weiss shrugged his shoulders and began rooting in drawers for Vaughn's clothes, Francie dragged Sydney out of the room with herself spread in Michael's eye line.

Leading her to her car, Francie was conserving energy by not explaining a thing. Sydney's mind was overflowing with question after question, punctuated occasionally by a choice curse. As the car sputtered to life and Francie pulled out, Syd chose the broadest one she could think of. "Fran, what the hell is going on?"

Her friend didn't take her eyes off the crowded road as she answered. "Weren't you listening? You're getting married today. We have to pick up our dresses and get over to the church. Then I become your awesome wedding planner and hop over to the reception hall, arrange the flowers there, get the food and DJ set, and cruise back there to oversee things. Do you know how incredibly hard it is to throw a wedding together in just one day?"

"No," Syd replied in a tension-wrought tone, "I wouldn't know, now, would I?" Animosity was creeping into her heart like fog down a street. Her friend only had her best interests at heart, but she didn't need to do _this_. She knew that a person could have the ability to dictate their feelings toward a situation: if they found it unfavourable, a person could set their mind against it — be irritable and disagreeable — in hopes that things would change to their liking. That, she decided, was what she was going to do.

Francie suddenly swerved into a parking spot on the side of the road and screeched to a halt. She was a flurry of purse straps, keys, and receipts as she tried to get out of the car and gather everything at once. Syd simply sighed, unbuckled her seatbelt, stepped out, and waited for her friend to show her the way. They trekked into Betty's Bridal Boutique, an unassuming and even quaint store that remained homey despite the busy street outside. Syd sat politely in a chair in front of the window, but Francie flew to the receptionist's desk and began to frantically ring a bell poised on the desktop. A frazzled-looking woman appeared from a back room with a fabricated smile plastered onto her face.

Syd's best friend didn't even wait for the lady to say anything. Instead she demanded, "Two dresses for Calfo: one bride and one bridesmaid. Hurry up! We're kinda on a time limit here!" After not bothering to hide a disdainful glare, the woman hurried back to room from whence she came.

Closing her eyes and breathing meditatively, Syd asked a question that she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer to. "How did you know what dress to pick out for me? Last time I checked, I hadn't even decided on what kind of skirt I wanted."

Fran rolled her eyes dismissively and began tapping her nails on the desk impatiently. "I picked out the one I knew you'd like the most, and I already know your size. I'm your best friend: it's my job to know these things."

__

'You're kidding me,' She thought incredulously, physically shaking her head. _'Well if you know my goddamn size, you **should** know that I'm not enjoying this at all. If you were my best friend, you'd realize that I'd rather go down the aisle butt-naked than have no say in my dress. Or my wedding for that matter.'_

The lady reappeared, bustling out of the back room with her arms piled high in nylon garment bags. Francie grabbed them from her, shoved them at Sydney, and breezed out of the boutique like a whirlwind. Syd had to practically jog to keep up.

"What about my hair and nails? If I'm getting married today, I should have gotten them done yesterday. As I don't think my memory is defective, I don't believe that's what happened."

"Don't worry; I have people waiting at the church."

People. That's what she was afraid of. "Aren't you worried about spreading yourself too thin?"

"No."

"What if you get stuck in traffic on your way back to the church?"

__

"Then I'll fly."

"Seriously, Fran!"

"I'm dead serious! I'll flag down a passing pigeon! Nothing is going to keep me from my best friend's wedding."

__

'Obviously. Not even the best friend herself.' "Aren't you afraid you left something out? How did you manage to get this all together in one day?"

They had only just climbed into the car when it sped back out into the busy street. Francie scoffed. "Are you kidding me? Even _I'm_ not that good! I've had everyone waiting on stand-by ever since I found out about Weiss's little gig as an ordained priest. They've just been waiting for my cue. When a little — well, not so much little as large — birdie told me that your trips were going to be non-existent this week, we rolled into action."

"But what about Michael's bachelor party? Or my bachelorette party? Why deprive us of knowing about our last night as single people?" Sydney was officially grasping at straws; any excuse to get this wedding train to turn around was good enough for her.

Fran issued a short laugh as she swung right down a street. "You're joking, right? Michael wasn't really into the whole 'bachelor party' thing, anyway; he said he was only going to do it for Eric, remember? I'm not too fond of the idea of strippers rubbing their large fake breasts up in my boyfriend's face and giving him ideas. And you don't bother to even look at guys anymore, so what's the point?"

Damn. She tried.

They screeched to a halt in front of a church that she had never seen — let alone been to — and Francie switched on her hazard lights as she quickly guided her friend inside. Through hallways and around corners the friends traveled until Fran literally shoved Sydney through a door into one of the dressing rooms, still carrying the garment bags and staggering bewilderedly. After muttering a hasty word of parting Francie took off again, presumably either to check the flowers in the church or zoom to the reception hall (wherever that was).

Facing Syd were seven women, each looking like a hungry lioness that had spotted its prey and was crouched to spring. She barely had time to think about running out the door before they pounced. Two of them grabbed the bags out of her arms while yet another pair dragged an armchair into the middle of the room and in front of the three-paneled mirror. As she fought to strip her own clothes, one of the attendants unzipped a garment bag, and she got her first glance of the wedding dress.

All she could do was gasp.

The sleeves were bell-shaped and drooped a good two feet from her wrist. Trimmed with a gold ribbon, they also had oval cutouts along the arm interspersed with tiny pink rosebuds. The neckline still left something to the imagination and was adorned with rosebuds as well, while the back dipped down to her waist. Off-white silk was draped across the bust in flowing waves and bled down into a smooth, form-fitting satin bodice. The skirt overshadowed everything. It was bell-shaped like the sleeves, a built-in petticoat of stiff taffeta keeping its princess-style shape. Pleats ran from the waist down, pearls sown on in random designs. Flowers were embroidered at the skirt's hem, centres made of clustered pearls. And there was a train. It was tapered at the waist but fanned out to the width of the skirt and continued on for a good twelve feet, edged with embroidered ivy sprigs and flowers matching the skirt's.

"Okay, somehow hand me my tiara and I'll be all set."

"Not yet. We still have hair to do."

Sydney hadn't even realized she had spoken. A short black-haired woman was standing in front of her with her back to the mirrors, fists digging into her hips. Pointing towards another door she commanded in Spanish-tinged English, "Shower. Now. Then we dress you."

__

'And I shall call her Mini Francie!'

Following the woman's orders, she showered and allowed one of the women to dress her (albeit very self-consciously). And the dress didn't fit. The upper part of the bodice was too snug while the lower was a little big. Syd sighed: apparently Francie didn't know _all_ her sizes as well as she thought.

While all seven of the women formed a huddle to discuss her problem, Sydney's cell phone rang. Quickly smothering the noise, she slipped back into the bathroom and answered it. _"Save me! Now!"_

A light chuckle was the response. "I'm guessing you're not having as much fun as I am."

It was Michael. Precious few times had his voice been more welcome to her ears. "Fun?! A wedding is supposed to be _fun_?! Why did no one tell me this?"

Another short laugh, and she could hear the soft chink of plastic on porcelain: he was shaving. "Okay, spill: what's happening on your end?"

Collapsing on the closed lid of the toilet seat, she struggled to keep her voice from shaking. "I had no choice in my wedding dress; it looks like I stepped out of a really bad version of Cinderella. Francie thinks I'm fat with small breasts. I can't breathe; this thing is so tight. There are seven — count 'em, _seven! _— angry women waiting to attack me with nail files and curling irons. I have no idea what flowers are in the church, what's being served for dinner, what flavour the cake is, what colours are in the reception hall, or even where the damn thing is! And to top it off, I haven't had anything to eat since dinner _yesterday_. I'm really, really hungry!"

"I'm so sorry, baby," He said through suppressed spurts of laughter. "I wish there was something I could do. I really do."

"I don't want to be here, Michael!" She exclaimed, forgetting for a moment to keep her voice down. "We don't even go to church, damn it! Why do we have to be married in one? Isn't that sacrilegious or something?" She offered a choked little sob. "Get me out!"

"As much as I want to, I can't," He sighed, voice muffled slightly; he was toweling off his face. "Weiss and Will have me under lock and key. They're being threatened by Francie with getting shaven in…unfriendly places."

Despite the tears welling in her eyes, Syd laughed. "I'm sorry. I've been unloading all my problems without any concern for you. What's going on over there? What're you wearing?"

"Under normal circumstances, that question would turn me on. But not when I'm wearing a top hat, tails, white vest, bow tie, and cumberbun. I don't think men have dressed like this for at least a hundred years. I feel like I should be wearing a monocle and carrying a walking stick."

Her laughter reverberated throughout the bathroom as she cracked her first real smile of the day. "It's good to know that I'm not the only one whose clothes will serves as fodder for humiliation in years to come. But to put yours in perspective: at least you can _breathe_."

His chuckle was added to hers. "Well, I can also tell you that the colours are pink and purple, and the flowers are roses and carnations."

Sydney froze. "You're kidding."

"Not at all. Those are the only flowers I can recognize without help."

She felt like banging her head repeatedly against the sink. "Those are _her_ favourite colours! Doesn't she remember that I _abhor_ roses and carnations? Are you sure you didn't see any orchids or tiger lilies or baby's breath?"

"Those are the ones you like?"

"Yeah."

"Then no."

"Damn it!" She swore, beginning to pace across the small space in her stocking-clad feet. "Is this our wedding or hers?"

"I believe that would be the Question of the Day, my dear."

A sharp rap on the door startled Sydney. It was followed by more broken orders to 'get out of toilet so girls can do hair and nails.' She sighed and her shoulders began to slump. "Mini Francie wants to get me all beautified and shit."

An expectant silence followed.

"This woman Fran hired to, I don't know, oversee the rest of my attendants. I have to go. Hopefully I'll see you soon and we'll be alone for more than five seconds."

"I second that motion."

"Bye."

"Bye."

Hanging up, Sydney inhaled as deeply as the dress allowed, unlocked the door, and was immediately barraged with said nail files and curling irons.

All in all, it took about four hours total to do her hair and nails. She finally stood in front of the mirrors an hour before the ceremony was scheduled to begin. Her hair was swept up into a bun on the top of her head with a circlet of pearls upon which hung the veil that trailed the same length as the train. Two ringlets hung down to frame her face. The tiara was perched on her crown, diamond sparkling proudly back at her in the afternoon light. If she had been one for extravagance, elegance, and high society clothing, she'd be in heaven. As it was, she almost found it pretty.

Suddenly France appeared over her friend's shoulder, tears congregating but refusing to fall. Fixing the position of a rosebud she whispered, "You look so beautiful, Syd. Like the bride of my dreams."

A shadow passed over her face, and she turned around to confront her friend. "Um, about that—" But gunfire cut her off.

A single shot.

Then silence.

Syd's eyes doubled in size, and she grabbed Francie by the shoulders. "Stay here. Do not leave this room under any circumstances, do you hear me? Lock the door and don't make any noise."

Francie's face contorted in confusion as she fought to stay by her friend. "But why? What's wrong? What's going on, Syd?"

"Just do it!" She was already running down the hall with her skirt bunched up in her hands, remembering the path she had taken to get from the front doors to her dressing room. When she came up to the last corner, her footfalls became silent even as her speed remained the same. Rounding it, she peered down the corridor and her worst fears were confirmed: there was the CIA guard that was usually sanctioned for special events. He was dead: a single bullet to the head.

He'd found her. Sloane had tracked her down and had planned on interrupting her happiness one last time. But she wasn't going to let that happen.

Knowing it would slow her down, she removed her tiara and veil and tore off the majority of her train. She then proceeded to stalk towards the entryway to the actual church. What she saw made her heart jump into her throat.

All of the guests were seated already, with the priest, Michael, Weiss, and Will at the end of the aisle. Her father was also by the priest's side, but his position was unwilling. A gunman was poised in front of them, a pistol trained on Michael, but obviously indiscriminate as to whom he shot. There were men in combat fatigues stationed around the room, two to every exit. But Sloane was nowhere to be found. Her eyes locked with her father's and he blinked her a message in Morse code.

'S-L-O-A-N-E-G-U-N-I-N-C-O-A-T.'

She nodded shortly, but upon turning around Francie's voice echoed in the foyer. "Syd, behind you!"

A rough hand gripped her bicep and a gun was thrust into the soft area under her chin. She winced slightly: the barrel was still hot. "Hello, Sydney," A familiar greasy voice drawled. She didn't have to see the man to know it was he. "Fancy meeting you here. I was just coming to see one of my favourite agents get married. Although I don't think that will be happening now, do you?"

Her speech was impaired by the pistol but she grunted, "What do you want, Sloane?"

His laughed was as bitter as ever. "You," He answered simply. Before she could respond, he roughly pushed her through the entryway and to the beginning of the aisle. Michael's eyes immediately locked on to his fiancée's, and on instinct he made a move towards her. The thug in front of him waved the gun threateningly as Sloane wedged the gun further against her throat. "Ah, ah, ah, Agent Vaughn. If you move, you won't be the only one with a bullet to the head."

Michael stepped back in front of Weiss with his hands folded behind his back. Syd could tell by the way they both were fidgeting that they were exchanging guns. Weiss was handing over a firearm to his best friend. Back when they first got engaged, the promised each other that they wouldn't wear holsters of any kind until _after_ the wedding. Their friend, on the other hand, was free to do whatever he wanted. She'd have to thank him later for wanting to tote a gun or two.

Her father also had his hands hidden behind his back. _'Of course,'_ She chastised herself. _'He wouldn't bring only one gun to my wedding, let alone leave it in his coat. I wouldn't be surprised if he hand another strapped to his ankle._

'Wait a second: coat!'

Sloane, despite her shout in the hall, hadn't noticed Francie's presence yet. Albeit Syd was angry with her friend for disobeying her orders, she was glad she did now. Syd was formulating a plan. If Fran was still quietly observing at the doorway, then everything was set. Somehow she needed to get Sloane to turn around and face the foyer without actually looking at it. Then she'd have to find a way to inconspicuously communicate with her, tell her to get the gun from her father's coat, and somehow convincingly wield it against ten trained Large Thugs, and two gunmen holding her best friends hostage. All without ever handling a gun in her life.

__

'Can we say "far-fetched" anyone?'

Syd's gaze darted quickly between the three other field-rated agents, trying desperately to convey her plans. The two men closest to her heart immediately understood and began discreetly shifting their bodies so as to get into a better position; they weren't able to provide the distraction, but they were ready and willing to fight.

Weiss was still completely clueless. He stared at Syd blatantly, obviously wanting some form of instructions. And then another idea hit her: she'd be the one to get Sloane to turn his back on the wedding party! While his back was turned, then either her father or Michael could take out the gunman while Eric slipped away through the one entrance that wasn't guarded: the door to the dressing room she had been in! The rest of the guards were more concerned with people coming in rather than the occupants of the room themselves; they wouldn't notice him slink away. Then if Francie had gone back to the room, Eric could convince her to stay put this time. Yes; she'd doubled checked it and there were few possibilities for error. This was the best she could come up with under this kind of pressure. She conveyed it quickly to Weiss.

Sloane started on a worn and lengthy diatribe, intent on convincing both Sydney and Jack to join him in his 'quest for enlightenment.' She tuned out the tired rambling and instead concentrated on digging her sharp heel into her skirt. Feeling the thin material give way to her stiletto, Syd went to work on the worn carpet, snagging any fibers that would catch on her sharp shoe. Finally hitting the hard wood underneath, she was (figuratively) able to breathe easier. All she had to do was wait.

Then it happened.

He began advancing towards the end of the aisle in slow, measured paces, dragging Sydney with him. But her shoe pinned down her skirt and made the pair of them twist around one hundred and eighty degrees. Syd quickly caught a glimpse of a black blur from the doorway as she collapsed on the floor, feigning a twisted ankle. She cried out, "Coat!" as she clutched her perfectly fine ankle, hoping beyond hope that her friend got something out of the random word. True to her plan, the flash of black zoomed out of view to her right and what she only assumed was some sort of coat check. 

Sloane had followed Syd to the floor, the gun now pressed against her left temple, and the people around her began to murmur quietly despite their obvious terror. He either hadn't heard or understood her exclamation as she went down, because he only asked if she was all right, making her want to retch on his shoes. There was a muted gunshot at the pinnacle of the aisle, but what attracted Sloane's interest was the sharp increase in noise from the gathering. Spinning around, he tugged her to her feet and began advancing again down the aisle, wrenching her shoe free and really twisting her ankle. Her yelp of pain was lost, though, in the ensuing commotion.

The one thing she had counted on causing trouble had done so.

Reactions to the gunshot rippled through the crowd, garnering the guards and Sloane's attention. This drew focus onto Weiss, who was halfway to the dressing room door. Mercs from the nearest exit suddenly appeared at his side and flanked him as he begrudgingly trudged back to his spot in the wedding party. Sloane's gun was back under her chin, the barrel now cool, and she could practically hear his slimy smile. "You can't get away that easily. The only way this will end without anyone getting hurt is if both _Bristows_ come with me."

The thought of spitting in his face occurred to Sydney, but she didn't get the chance.

"Not if I can help it."

Sloane spun the pair of them around again, twisting her ankle one more time. It was Francie, wielding the unfamiliar gun like a pro and training it on Sloane. "Look, I don't know who the hell you are," She continued, "but you better get your hands off my best friend."

Her act apparently didn't fool Sloane, though, for he merely wedged the gun further into Syd's flesh. "Ah, you must be Francie. A pleasure to finally meet you at last. Now, why don't you put that gun down; we both know you don't know how to handle it."

That was a challenge. And Francie never backed down from a challenge.

The gun raised ever so slightly, one of her eyes closed, and she aimed. Sydney braced herself for a large dose of pain: Sloane was using her as a human shield, and the only body parts that were exposed were his arms and head. But when the shot rang out a fraction of a second later, the cry of pain did not come from her own throat. The gun at her chin wasn't as tightly held and her arm was loosed. Fran had shot him in the left arm.

From then on, everything was pretty much a blur. Somehow she wrenched herself from his grasp, but then the guards from the nearest doorway were upon her. Ignoring the steadily worsening pain in her ankle, she fended off two of them while desperately trying to make her way towards Francie. The other guards gradually joined the fray, slashing at her gown with knives and delivering swift roundhouse kicks that knocked her to the floor. But just as quickly as the fight began, it was over with one simple word issuing from three throats simultaneously:

"FREEZE!"

Pure adrenaline kept her on her feet as she hobbled towards the gun-toting Michael. He immediately dropped his borrowed firearm as she neared and collapsed into his arms, unable to support her weight on her injured ankle a moment longer. The sleeves of her dress were ripped off and lay on the floor under the feet of the surrendering guards. Her arms were crisscrossed with knife scrapes, and there was a shallow gash across her stomach that was already staining the material with blood where she had failed to get out of the way in time. The formerly beautiful gown hung in limp tatters around her decrepit form, pearls littering the floor like teardrops. Her chin and cheek were beginning to bruise where Sloane's gun and a fist had landed respectively: yellow had begun to creep to the surface.

The pair collapsed onto a pew with her cradled in his arms. She vaguely noticed that all the pews were recently vacated and her father was missing. Her eyes darted around the room and took in Will and Francie joining Weiss in keeping the offenders in one place. But one other person was noticeably absent.

Syd suddenly sat straight up and whipped her head around, attempting to visually search every nook and cranny. "Where's Sloane? Where is he? _Where is that bastard?!"_

Michael took hold of her head with both of his hands, forcing her to look at him. "That's not important right now. Are you all right?" When her eyes continued their sweep of the room, he sighed in exasperation and commanded her attention with his tone. "Syd!"

"I'll be fine," She answered absently. "My ankle, but…Where is he, Vaughn? I want to know!"

He winced at the slip in his name, but said nothing of it. "He escaped while you were fighting. As soon as Francie shot him, the room disintegrated into chaos, and he disappeared in the fray. Your father followed but couldn't find him; now's he radioing for backup."

"So we lost him. Again," She spat, venom saturating her voice "Why does this always happen? Why can't he just leave me the hell alone?" She stood up, planning on pacing to relieve stress, but her right ankle gave out, sending her back down onto Michael's lap with a soft thump.

"That doesn't matter right now, baby," He reiterated softly, cupping her cheek and stroking a thumb across the rapidly forming bruise. "All that I care about is that you're safe."

Jack Bristow suddenly appeared above the couple with a white first-aid box in hand. He passed it off to Michael wordlessly and relieved Francie of both her gun and position guarding the thugs.

Her fiancé rubbed ointment onto the small cuts on her arms. The gash on her abdomen was large and deep enough to warrant a bandage. He tore away a section of her bodice (under her father's watchful eye) and circled gauze around her midsection, garnishing it with butterfly kisses when Spy Daddy wasn't looking. Proceeding down her body, he wrapped her ankle with medical tape and placed her discarded heels on the pew next to her. He sighed as he retook his seat, leaning all the way back and looking straight ahead. "Look on the bright side, Syd: we don't have to go through with this crazy pseudo-wedding."

It was then that she noticed the top hat sitting slightly askew on his head. Struggling to keep her angry expression she replied, "Yeah I guess. But they messed up my hair, and that was the only thing I liked out of this whole deal."

"What about your nails?"

"Oh. No, they're perfect."

He chuckled in response. After a brief moment of silence, he patted her sore knee and rose. "Come on. Let's get out of here. Let's go home. I don't think they'll ever let us back here again, anyway." When she didn't move he rolled his eyes and sighed again. "Don't make me carry you."

"Fine, fine. I'm up."

The doors were suddenly pushed open and about twenty CIA agents paraded in with full gear and took over the prisoners. Will, Weiss, and Francie joined the couple in exiting the church, and Fran waited with Syd while Michael and Will went to get the cars and Weiss went to 'fashion crutches from tree branches.' 

"Good luck to him on finding a tree in this city," Fran said as she helped her friend sit on the front steps.

Syd nodded placidly with her hands folded in front of her. "When did you learn to fire a gun?" She asked suddenly, incredulity and awe seeping into her voice.

Her friend shrugged. "It was a lucky shot. I've never even touched one of those things in my life."

"I could tell. You should never close an eye when aiming: impairs your judgement."

"I'll keep that in mind for the next time I go to the firing range," Fran joked. Turning serious again she asked, "Who was that man, Syd? Why did he want you and your dad? What was he talking about?"

She sighed; she knew these questions would be asked sooner or later. "Remember when I told you about SD-6 and a man named Arvin Sloane? Well, that was him. And without getting into the whole long story, there's a prophecy, I'm in it, my dad was his friend, and he wants to be immortal."

"Immortal?" Fran replied incredulously. "That's impossible…Right?" Her own nervous chuckle was her only answer.

After a few moments of as-near-silence-as-one-can-get-in-LA, Syd asked her last questions. "How did you know to get the gun from my dad's coat? Did you really understand me?"

A funny look met her gaze. "Your dad's coat? I didn't get the gun from your dad's coat."

Syd's eyes widened again. "What? Then where?"

"When you fell down, this woman outside on the steps yelled to me and said for me to take this box. Inside was the gun. She was gone before I could ask any questions."

Her breathing became slightly laboured as she inquired, "Now this is really important: what did she look like?"

Francie thought for a moment before replying. "Long brown hair, round face, brown eyes, wearing all black, your height…Actually, she looked a lot like you. That's why I took the thing in the first place: I thought it was you at first."

__

'Mom.'

Just then Michael, Will, and Weiss pulled up in the cars, minus the homemade crutches. None of them made any reference to the botched wedding on the way home; instead, they sang along with the radio out of tune and off the beat, supplying fake words when the real ones weren't funny enough.

**__**

TBC…


	4. The Fourth Attempt

Thanks for the feedback! You guys rock!

:) Becky, the Dream Writer 4 Life

*~*

Different Shade of Normal: Spy Bride

****

Chapter Four: The Fourth Attempt

Francie was extremely humble for the next few months; everything she did was in service of either Sydney or Michael, especially while Syd's ankle was healing. She was laid up for a week when they realized it was a minor sprain and the gash in her stomach was slightly deeper than they had originally thought. Michael took full advantage of the time, coddling and waiting on her hand and foot until she hobbled into the kitchen and dumped her newly poured iced tea down his pants. After that he backed off, but maintained the habits of pillow fluffing and meals in bed. Meanwhile, her best friend pulled out all the stops on everything she cooked. Syd's favourite dishes began showing up on the table (or tray when Michael was home) at all times of the day: ice cream and lasagna with breakfast and French toast and scrambled eggs with dinner. Even though she was guilty that her formerly passable nutrition was shot to hell, a part of her reveled in the special treatment.

Sydney's best friend's remorse was greater than superficial accommodations. She had confided in Weiss (who passed it to Michael, who told Sydney) that she thought planning that surprise wedding was the worst mistake that she had ever made. "What if I scarred her for life?" She had apparently wailed into Eric's shoulder. "I mean, she got beat up on her wedding day! No one deserves that! And she hated the dress, but I loved it. What does that mean? Are we not supposed to be friends?" According to Weiss, this one-sided conversation went down upon that track for about an hour. ("Total and complete mental breakdown. She now doubts the geopolitical state of Russia and the stability of Alaskan farmers.")

Upon hearing this, Sydney was compelled to take Francie aside and reassure her of…well, everything. "It wasn't your fault," She had consoled her best friend. "The paper trail was a mile wide, and you didn't know that was a bad thing. Hell, I wouldn't have thought about it." (She would have — very much so, in fact — but everything was under Francie's name, which she'd hoped would have deterred him. Obviously he'd proved otherwise.) "He's a very bad, sneaky man. If he wants something, not much can stop him. Luckily, this time he got away with only himself."

"But he ruined your wedding!"

"Do I look crushed in the slightest?"

"No."

"Then you're fine."

"But am I still your best friend?"

"Yes, Francie! No matter what you do, you will always be a best friend." Pausing for a moment she'd remembered to add, "I'm pretty sure there are no farmers in Alaska, and Russia…will be okay."

After that little talk, things were downright pleasant again in the apartment. That is, excluding Weiss's incessant taunts. He'd adopted the habit of taunting Sydney by calling her "Gimpy" in every single language he knew. He unknowingly chided her when she was better, and she began chasing him around the apartment wielding a hot iron. That subsequently prompted Fran to "accidentally" slip an antihistamine into his dinner that night, and when he fell asleep on the couch a half hour later, the two used up a permanent marker drawing lewd things all over his body. Needless to say that _he_ was the one chasing them with the hot iron the next morning.

Unfortunately not everyone was as easy to forgive and forget. After the first bombed wedding, Weiss had been more than happy to take bets as to who would explode first: Kendall, Jack, Michael, or Sydney. The latter two were surprised to find that most money was placed on _them_; Kendall was a close third and Jack dwindled. Weiss took great glee in this: he himself had placed a large sum on Jack due to his "insider trading information the magnitude of which would make Martha Stewart quake in her homemade boots." And after their third botched wedding, everyone was waiting on the edge of their seats to see who would pop their top.

Once again, the entire agency had grossly underestimated one Mister Jack Bristow. Weiss collected more money in one night than he had earned in his entire life.

Kendall called an emergency meeting that afternoon immediately proceeding their arrival home. The discussion about whether or not to take Francie in for questioning — and therefore introducing her fully to their life — was lengthy and heated. In the end Sydney and Weiss won out over Will and Michael: Syd's one remaining tie to All That Was Normal remained in tact. The four agents made their way to the Ops Centre without a civilian in their midst.

When they arrived and walked in — through the front door, Syd never failed in gleefully noting — they were met with an apprehensive Director of Operations. He had hastily warned them of Jack's proximity and rushed off to conference room 2A to await the debrief. An apprehensive Kendall? Since when did that happen? What could have possibly made _Kendall_ of all people watch his back? The answer was staring at them from across the bullpen. Perhaps she was expecting too much, but as there was no cliché steam spewing from his ears, Syd thought that they might be spared from the Wrath of Jack. She would later realize how naïve she had been.

He had followed them into the conference room where a composed Kendall, Marshall, Dixon, and others connected to the Sloane task force were waiting in front of monitors. At first things went smoothly: chains of events were laid out, different sides of the story exposed, without anyone coming to blows or even sharing cross words. This was what had worried Sydney. Were the elder men merely waiting for the relatively innocent analysts to leave so that they could uncork their emotions? She hadn't been the only one feeling the tension. The usually ever-present hand on her upper thigh was then concentrating on breaking the armrest of his chair.

Just when Sydney had thought that she was going to need an oxygen tank to breathe, Kendall dismissed the analysts and turned to Michael and Syd, Jack standing beside him. She instinctively moved closer to her fiancé in order to fend off any pencils or coffee mugs that might be hurled his way by her father. Kendall was _angry_, but Mr. Bristow was positively _livid_. If their anger had been classified in shades of red, the Director's would have been faded, almost pink; Jack would've had to be a neon so bright that the noontime sun would have been a welcome respite. And the doors' locking mechanism was controlled by the Head of the Table.

It was a _long, long_ night.

Francie, wanting to know just exactly what happened, was silence with three words: "Jack Bristow's wrath." Subsequently she whipped up a delicious chocolate cake for the five of them to share.

After that night, Sloane was conveniently excluded from their talk about the Wedding That Wasn't; the scars (both literal and figurative) were simply too fresh to bring him up in a non-work-related sense. Francie also backed off completely. Syd no longer felt like the entire world was waiting with bated breath for their wedding bells to finally ring. This allowed the couple to finally take things at their own pace. The first thing they did was nothing, a whole lot of nothing. And they made no plans to; no hints of dates or progress of any kind could be found in their wedding journal. Syd supposed that after almost three years of engagement, they had simply got used to it and felt no particular rush to make it official. As long as it was official in their hearts, they didn't need a wedding to prove it to the world.

And that's where Syd found herself in the middle of July. She was lounging at her desk during her lunch hour waiting for Michael to emerge from a meeting; the black olives on his salad were seriously calling her name. Giving in to the temptation, she popped open the Tupperware lid and tossed one into her mouth while carefully tugging at the cover of their journal. (It was practically in pieces, and the ribbon had been discarded long ago for a sturdy rubber band.) Turning to the second to last page, she stared at their last entry:

__

'So much for "third time's the charm."'

It was his tall scrawling across the entire sheet, gone over so many times that once more would tear the paper. She nodded sadly in agreement and picked up her pen to put her assent in writing, but quickly thought better of it; they had decided to conserve the paper as much as possible, keeping entries short and sweet. This was helped along by the fact that Kendall was then refusing any of Jack Bristow's agent recommendations for international missions, therefore no longer classifying their time together as signs of the coming apocalypse. The grateful Syd and Michael usually just kept it on the nightstand at home, using it as a paperweight from time to time at work as well. But that day she had brought it in. No apparent reasoning behind the action; the notion had just struck her as she was rushing out the door that morning, so she shoved it in her briefcase.

As she let her gaze wander over the page, something near the bottom suddenly caught her eye. It was a short note at the very edge of the page, almost looking like a long ink smudge at first glance. Bringing it closer to her eyes she made out: _'Wedding date picked. Need to discuss. Talk in person later.'_ This was new; the last time she had gone on a mission was two weeks ago, at least. She searched the page for a possible date but found nothing.

Still staring at it in confusion, she heard a chair scrape across the granite floor to the other side of her desk and Michael took a seat. "You ate one of my black olives."

Retaining the same façade she looked up at him. "How'd you know?"

"I didn't. You just told me." He smiled smugly, grabbed her fork, and began rooting around in the mix of vegetables for another olive.

She rolled her eyes, slid the journal across the table, and pointed to the tiny message at the bottom of the page. "Why couldn't you just write what you wanted to say in here? If you ran out of room, there's this new-fangled thing called loose-leaf paper that you could use."

He continued to eat while he replied. "A: don't you think it's kinda sad that we even have to consider adding extra room to that journal? And b: you _know_ that thing is no longer private. Just the other day Eric asked me if sex on the beach is as good as it sounds."

"Are you sure he wasn't just talking about the drink?"

"Pretty sure, Syd."

"Well…" She stammered. She didn't want to discuss anything as personal as their wedding at work, not knowing who could happen to be listening. (And by anyone she meant her father.) Giving in she asked, "What did you want to talk about?"

Without missing a beat he answered, "This wedding. Or rather lack of one." She sighed and sat back in her chair, waiting for a lecture that would never come. "Sydney, you know I love you more than anything. You know I don't care if we only get a marriage license and skip the church wedding. But _I_ know that you want an actual ceremony. Which is why I want you to let me plan it. Now before you say no," He added hastily, abandoning his lunch completely, "just hear me out. After almost five years, I'd like to think I know what you hate and what you want. The only thing you'd have to get would be your wedding dress, 'cause I don't want the Cinderella on crack fiasco all over again—"

"Michael—"

"—There's this great little eatery just outside of town that can cater so that Francie doesn't have to—"

"Michael—"

"—And I know the perfect spot! It's about two hours up the coast—"

"_Vaughn!_" This snapped his lips shut for a time while she considered his proposal. "I love you so much. The wedding honestly doesn't mean that much to me anymore, but the little girl inside won't let it drop. Your idea is incredibly sweet—"

"There's a 'but' coming, isn't there?"

"—But there's a snowball's chance in hell that you're going to do this alone." Their gazes locked, and a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Sydney's lips. "We can plan everything _together_, like it's supposed to be. Like normal people do. It can be a surprise for everyone, and it'll be exactly the way we want it because _we_ did it all." Taking a deep breath she added, "Don't you want that?"

Michael returned the smile full force, reaching across her desk to cover her hand with his. "Sounds great, Syd. I was hoping you'd say that." The magnetic force between their lips suddenly intensified, pulling them tantalizingly closer. Everything fell away until there was only the other staring back with love written in dimples and lines. But a sharp yell behind her shattered their reverie, reminding them of their setting. "So," He stalled as he composed himself, his voice down an octave and huskier than usual. "What do we do first?"

"Um…" She was also trying to squelch the flames that had suddenly sprung up deep inside of her. Giving up, she leaned closer so that only he could hear and whispered into his ear, "First we go home and not leave our room for a good twenty-four hours. Then we'll go from there."

"Sounds like a plan."

***

"Ooh, this one's nice."

"Syd, it's ten thousand dollars."

"Not _that_ nice!"

"How 'bout this one?"

"If I fell into a pool I'd drown! You sure _that_ isn't the ten-thousand-dollar one?"

"Why would you wear your ring while at a pool? Wouldn't you be afraid it'd rust or something?"

"You really know nothing about jewelry, do you?"

"Why? What'd I say?"

"Never mind. Just keep looking." Michael and Sydney continued to peruse the locked cases in the zillionth jewelry store they'd been to that day. She originally said she wouldn't be that picky about her ring, that a piece of string with his love behind it would be good enough for her. Unfortunately everything changed the moment they set foot into the first jewelry store: his beloved fiancée morphed into a hunting lioness on the lookout for the perfect ring and any jewelers that could possibly get in her way. Despite his grumbled protests, Michael really couldn't have minded much. This was the last task on their list of things to do (written as carefully as possible on the last page of their wedding journal), and he was drawing it out and savouring the experience as one would a good glass of wine.

They had each found clothing for the day, settled on a cake, caterer, and flowers, and even booked a reception hall. The 'perfect spot two hours up the coast' happened to be the private section of beach owned by none other than Mrs. Amélie Vaughn herself. At first, Sydney blatantly refused, not willing to take full advantage of her mother-in-law-to-be when it wasn't completely guaranteed that her husband's killer wouldn't show up unexpectedly to crash the party. But one look at the blooming wisteria, golden sand, and pristine water and Sydney was swayed to take up the offer. The fact that their reception hall happened to be literally just down the road was the deal-breaker.

"Hey, this one looks kinda nice." His voice snapped her back to the present, and she peered through the smudged glass at where he was pointing.

It was easily the simplest ring in the entire store, and Syd supposed that was how it caught her fiancé's eye. The white-gold band was thin and embodied femininity, yet strong and stylish at the same time. A miniscule diamond was set into the band itself, almost hidden within the glow of the latter. It's companion for the male of the couple was also white gold, smooth and without adornments. It was perfect for him as well.

Gripping his hand tightly, she signaled over a service clerk and asked sweetly, "Do you have this in a nine?"

Upon purchasing and obtaining the rings (the store happened to have each of their sizes in stock; it wasn't a very popular item), they sped away towards the apartment. The couple planned on spending the night in their room with her stereo system cranked, making their own invitations. Francie and Weiss were scheduled to be out as was Will, but Sydney had learned her lesson from their botched eloping: doors would be locked and alibis at the ready; who says that one can't be crafty while practically naked? The music was to 'mask their screams of ecstasy.' If everything went well and they accomplished their task with some time to spare, maybe the music would be needed after all.

They quickly locked the bedroom and lazily began striping down to the bare essentials. This left him in only a pair of boxers; she was clad similarly with only a white spaghetti strap shirt as an addition. They each began pulling materials from every crevice in the room: under the bed, between the mattresses, the top shelf of the closet, in the back of their underwear drawer. Everything from crayons to photos to paints to glitter to lace to patterned paper was spilled onto the comforter, ready and willing to be used to the fullest extent.

"So do you have any idea what we're doing?" He asked casually, sitting cross-legged with his back against the headboard.

"Not really," She answered slowly, eyeing the large mess of art supplies. Turning to her stereo system, she began leafing through their compiled collection of CDs.

"Good. 'Cause I do. Gimme your thumb." He waited with his head bent over the supplies, his arm stretched towards her. She looked at him apprehensively, hesitating in the middle of turning a page in their CD case. Never glancing up, he beckoned her hurriedly with his hand and commanded, "Come here! Hurry up! It's nothing bad, I promise." Dropping the page she strolled over, offering her hand to him palm down. He roughly seized it by the wrist and yanked it around so that her palm faced the ceiling. Grabbing the small bottle of red paint, he squeezed a generous dollop onto the skin of the inside of his knee, dipped a paintbrush in and swirled it, then flicked it back and forth across her thumb. When it was sufficiently coated, he pressed his own thumb into the paint on his leg and pulled a piece of paper closer. In the centre of the top he quickly left his thumbprint in two places, the heel of the digit lying in the same place. Pulling Syd's hand down he did the same to her, so that their four thumbprints formed a red flower, contrasting with the baby blue background.

He finally looked up at her, a boyish grin ratcheting up the wattage of the room. "Lesson Number One from Michael Vaughn's School of Art," He said, "never interrupt the muse. The muse is the end all, be all."

She raised an eyebrow playfully. "And what am I, chopped liver?"

"No," Michael answered, a touch defensive as he grabbed a Kleenex from the nightstand in order to rid them of the paint. "You're just a…different kind of muse."

Laughing, she threw the soiled Kleenex back at his face and made her way towards the CDs again. "Just keep on doodling, Art Boy, and maybe this 'different kind of muse' will swing into action." Michael chuckled and shook his head incredulously, already reaching for a calligraphy pen and a broken stick of charcoal. She reached the end of their massive book and sighed: she still didn't know what music she wanted blaring out of her speakers. Deciding to pose the question to her fiancé she asked, "Do you have a musical preference for the evening? I'm sorry but Evanescence, Marilyn Manson, Cold, and Staind just don't seem to fit the mood."

"We have more than that," He replied, preoccupied.

"Yeah," She countered, slightly whiny, "but John Mayer and Jason Mraz are too happy, Incubus and Papa Roach are too hard, 50 Cent and Nelly are too dirty, and everything else is too…something."

"'Too something'?" He repeated blankly, still drawing and thinking away. "Then why don't you turn on the radio. There's gotta be something you like on some station."

Sighing, she did just that and then collapsed into the kitchen chair that had taken up permanent residence in their bedroom. She let her ankles rest on the edge of the bed and slouched down, her hands folded lightly over her stomach.

To watch Michael Vaughn create was to watch his raw soul at work. She'd rarely seen him do it and rarely watched him closely, thinking that it was too personal an act to intrude upon. But this time she couldn't tear her eyes away from him: his toned back arching over his project; the outstretched arm, muscles gliding smoothly under his tight skin, making the tattoo on his left shoulder ripple ever so slightly. His rough hands — the same ones that when placed in the right spots could launch her into the throes of ecstasy — now held a calligraphy pen with only three fingers, brushing it across the page with effortless strokes. From what she could see of his face, his brow was furrowed; eyebrows were knotted together; and eyes were narrowed in the deepest form of concentration. His Adam's Apple bobbed with every swallow as if in slow motion, a tantalizing lump under the delicate skin of his throat, calling out for her to cross the gap and kiss it. Then his cheekbones suddenly became more pronounced as he sucked in his cheeks and pursed his lips: he was silently critiquing his work while still on the job.

__

'Ever the diligent employee.'

His muscular arm darted about the comforter, grabbing this and depositing that, ever at the mercy of "his muse". She didn't have to look at the paper to know that it would be a work of art, something to be laminated and framed for years to come. And his toes were curled. It was the most wonderful sight she knew she'd ever seen, and simply wanted to gaze at him and revel in his presence for hours on end.

But the sudden strains of a familiar song pervaded her senses. The soft clink of a tambourine, the jazz-like swish of a drum brush over a snare head, the twang of a synthesizer, and the occasional plucking of an electric guitar floated over the still air to her ears. Cocking her head ever so slightly she began to listen.

__

'Come to me now

Lay your hands over me

Even if it's a lie

Say it will be all right

And I will believe

'Broken in two

I know you're on to me

That I only come home

When I'm so all alone

But I do believe…'

"Michael," She drawled slowly, reluctant to break his contact with the muse, "where have I heard this song before?"

Sighing he replied with an air of detachment, "It's 'I Shall Believe' by Sheryl Crow off her 'Tuesday Night Music Club' CD."

"How do you know all that?"

"We have the disk, Syd."

"Really?" She mused. "Well, I never heard the song."

"Do you ever listen to anything besides the singles on a CD?"

"Michael," She restated a bit more firmly. He must have been finished — or the muse left him — because he looked up and locked eyes with his fiancée. "I really, really like this song."

A warm smiled spread across his face and he stood, strolled around to the CD player and case, found the desired disk, slipped it in, found the track, and pressed repeat. The same calm, sultry tune flowed from the speakers as he padded over to her and extended his hand. "Will you do me the pleasure of dancing with me, Miss Sydney Bristow?"

Graciously taking his hand and allowing his arms to envelop her, pulling her infinitely closer she replied, "That's the future Mrs. Michael Vaughn to you."

No more invitations were made that night.

***

"All I have to say is thank God for Kinko's."

"What are you talking about? I never went to Kinko's."

__

"What?"

"I just changed the names on the invitation to include all of our friends. They'll know who to invite from there."

"Are you fucking crazy? What if Weiss gets a hold of it first? He'll get it all covered in chocolate or jelly or something."

"Don't worry. I put it in a place that guarantees Eric won't find it first."

"The vegetable bin?"

"Damn straight."

"Well, I hope you're right, Michael. I don't want our only invitation ruined."

"Maybe it wouldn't be our only invitation if you hadn't distracted me last night."

"Well excuse me. Didn't mean to get all different kind of muse-ish on ya, there."

"You were _very_ distracting, you know."

"Just shut up and drive, will ya? You're swerving and I don't want to rear end the famous Vaughn pick-up truck."

It was the day of the wedding, and both were driving (in separate cars) up to his mother's house to prepare. They'd spent the night in separate rooms, albeit a bit begrudgingly, and probably convincing their friends that they'd had a fight. _'Just wait 'til they see that invitation,'_ Syd thought, taking a gulp out of her travel mug. The couple had been in constant contact throughout their visual boycott, either text messaging while they were shuffling about the apartment before departure or actually on the phone while driving, as they were at that moment. Syd did not want to see her phone bill for that month.

Despite her original protests about alerting their friends in this manner, it really would work out quite well. Immediately before closing the door, she'd smashed two plates, a glass, and a vase that they never used anyway. This had most certainly woken up Francie — who was a light sleeper — and she in turn would rouse Weiss, who would call both Will and Jack when they discovered the couple MIA. Fran would begin to make breakfast, therefore going into the vegetable bin to grab a tomato for her eggs (it was stored there even though Syd insisted it was a fruit) and would subsequently find their lone invitation. She'd scream in surprise, grab the phone from Eric — who would be talking with Jack by then — and exclaim that they only had thirteen hours to get to Michael's mother's house (directions were to be found on the refrigerator) and get ready for her "goddamn crazy best friend and her goddamn gorgeous fiancé's wedding." Then she'd whisk herself out of the kitchen and to her bedroom to get ready, followed by a hurt look from Weiss.

__

'Besides,' Sydney thought, _'it gives her three hours more notice than she gave us. And she barely has to lift a finger this time. What does she have to complain about? She should be thankful that we aren't making Weiss perform the wedding.'_

Syd giggled out loud at the thought, and the sound of a throat clearing drifted through the speakers of her car from the phone mounted to the dashboard. "Are you still laughing at my driving?" He chided snidely. "'Cause I've got both hands on the wheel, and they're even at ten and two."

"No they're not."

"Hey! How'd you know? Are you following close enough to see me? Back off!"

"I didn't know. You just told me," She mocked, sticking out her tongue at the phone.

"Don't stick your tongue out at me, Miss Bristow."

"How'd you—!" She cut herself off and glared a half-mile down the deserted road at the blue pick-up. "Nice try, Agent Vaughn. You're good, but you're not _that_ good."

"Oh, but I am. What was it you said last night? 'That was the best sex I've ever had'? 'Your tongue does wonderful things; is it double-jointed or something?'"

"Shut up if you value your life _at all_."

He chuckled slightly and replied, "I live to please you, so if you kill me, you're the one who's gonna be hurting." Before she could launch another scathing remark he added, "Take your next left. I'm about five minutes out. Slow down and I'll tell you when it's safe to pull up to the house. I just know you're going to love it, baby."

She sighed as she saw him disappear into a thicket of trees off to the left. Slowing her speed, she also turned off onto the gravel road, kicking up rocks and leaving a cloud of chalky dust in her wake. It was a really long driveway, she soon realized, wide enough for only one car. This path obviously hadn't been used for a while: through the lingering haze left from Michael's vehicle she could see green shoots of grass pushing up through the white stones. _'His mother must ride a bike to the nearest town. That's a good two or three miles each way.'_

A car door slamming and heavy footsteps on wooden stairs pulled her back to the phone. "Everything's set, Syd. God, it's so beautiful. You're going to absolutely love it. But don't come around the back yet! I want to see your face when you take your first drink of my mother's backyard. Oh! _Maman!_" Garbled French reached her end as mother and son embraced, then clear French protests as the phone was presumably snatched away by the elder woman.

__

"Michel! Allez à votre chambre! Maintenant!" There was a heavy sigh as a porch door slammed shut behind the woman. "Hello, Sydney, dear," Mrs. Vaughn drawled with a heavy accent. "It is safe now. My son is in the house."

Syd exhaled with a grin on her face. "Mrs. Vaughn, you know you can talk to me in French; I can understand you perfectly."

"Nonsense!" She exclaimed good-naturedly. "I will not have you go out of your way just to make an old woman more comfortable. And call me Amélie, dear."

"But really, it's no trouble—"

"No! Do not argue with your future mother-in-law on your wedding day."

It was no use explaining to the woman that French (as well as Spanish, Italian, German, Russian, Mandarin, Welsh, Finnish, Polish, Slavic, Swedish, Portuguese, Chinese, Japanese, Korean…she'd actually forgotten how many languages) was almost a second nature to her. She'd been speaking it since her freshman year of college, ever sine her first mission for SD-6 with Noah…_'Oh God…Noah…'_

Just then she rounded a bend and the trees fell away to reveal a faded blue two-story house with latticework trim. There was a short, squat woman with flyaway white hair, vivid blue eyes, and healthy, tanned skin waiting for her with a phone clutched in her hand next to her son's truck. Another black Sedan was parked beside it, but Sydney thought nothing of it as she parked the car, hung up the phone, and began getting out. Mrs. Vaughn swooped down upon her in a second. "Let me carry your bags for you, dear," She lilted, still in surprisingly good English. "I offered the house to Michael for your honeymoon, but he wouldn't hear of it. He said something about it not being secluded enough. Where are you going, _chérie_?"

"I — I have no idea, actually," Sydney stammered. In all of their planning, it hadn't once occurred to her to ask where they were going for their honeymoon. Mentally bashing her head with a baseball bat she asked, "Is anyone else here yet?"

The old woman's face lit up as she smiled, crows' feet and laugh lines parading across her features. "Oh yes! Your father arrived a half-hour ago with Ms. Francie, Mr. Will, and Eric. That reminds me: I must go padlock my refrigerator before Eric eats me out of house and home." Leading Syd up the weathered driftwood stairs and into the house, she parted ways with her in the foyer, hanging the garment bag on the banister.

Syd cringed as she heard Mrs. Vaughn announcing her presence. She heard a pair of feet hit the floor followed by a bellow. "SYDNEY ANNE BRISTOW! MARCH YOUR HIND PARTS UPSTAIRS BEFORE I BEAT YOU WITH THIS NICE LADY'S FAVOURITE WALKING STICK!"

***

"God, Syd, you're so pretty. Whoever was handing out the looks must've sure liked you a whole lot."

"Thanks Fran. I think. Now for the zillionth time will you _please_ do my hair?"

"Oh! Yeah, sure."

Knowing that Michael Vaughn, her future husband, was literally just across the hall was simply killing her, but knowing that they'd be married in under a half-hour was keeping her together. She was in Mrs. Vaughn's bedroom sitting on the edge of her bed and facing the floor-length mirror against the wall in front of her. Francie was kneeling behind her, plaiting her hair in the French braid she'd been wanting for the past two hours. As she sat there, Syd studied the two of them in the waning natural light floating in through the northern-exposed windows.

Francie was slightly overdressed in her lavender bridesmaid gown from the previous wedding attempt. For some reason, she had kept both it and the matching shoes, probably in hopes that Syd would have another big church wedding where she _didn't_ have to shoot anyone. Upon realizing that this ceremony _wasn't_ going to be a big to-do, she let down her hair and donned matching flip-flops in lieu of those shoes. ("I don't want to sink into the sand and break my ankles while my best friend is saying her vows.")

Syd was in love with her dress. She'd found it on clearance at the same boutique that her best friend had bought the infamous Cinderella-on-crack dress from. Michael had asked what the hell she was squealing about; he was more than a little pissed that he had to spend two hours with his eyes squeezed shut while she tried on wedding gowns (she hadn't wanted to go alone). It was a simple sleeveless sundress made entirely of silk with a plunging neckline and, consequently, a built-in bra. The material clung to all the right places and smoothed over her few flaws. There was a long slit up to about mid thigh in the front, prompting Syd to also sport an off-white-almost-peach half-slip underneath. Her shoes…well, she didn't have any. Both she and her fiancé had decided to go barefoot during the ceremony and only don shoes or sandals if they absolutely _had_ to at the reception. There wasn't a stitch of embroidery or a single pearl on the gown anywhere.

"There," Francie announced, tying the last loop in the hair-tie. Looking at her friend in the mirror, she smiled genuinely and flashed her pearly whites. "Now all we need is something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue."

She rolled her eyes and sighed melodramatically. "Fran, you _know_ I don't believe in luck."

"Yeah, but I do. Enlighten me, please."

"Fine." She glanced down and around the room, grasping for objects to add. "Well, the dress is new, and the hair-tie is borrowed from you."

"I have the perfect thing for the blue!" Her friend suddenly exclaimed. Darting to the open window, she leaned out and moments later appeared with five little blue wisteria blossoms. She pressed them into the folds of her best friend's braid and stood back to admire her handiwork. "Perfection. I just hope Mrs. Vaughn doesn't mind me picking her flowers."

"Not in the slightest, dear," said a voice from the doorway, now clad in a dark blue sundress and a wide-brimmed gardening hat. Looking at Francie she asked, "May I have a moment with the bride?" Nodding, she ducked out of the room to leave the two generations of Vaughn wives alone. The elder took a seat on the bed next to her future daughter-in-law, clasping Syd's larger hand in her smaller one. "You look wonderful, dear. More beautiful that anyone I could have imagined for my son, both inside and out."

Syd blushed fiercely but didn't look away. Gathering her courage she started, "Mrs. Vaughn, I—"

"Amélie," She corrected.

"_Amélie_, I love your son very, very much. More than words can say."

"I know. And he loves you. I've never seen him so enamoured with someone before. You must be really special. Which is why I want you to have this." Standing, she crossed over to a chest of drawers. She began digging around in the jewelry box that stood on top and finally produced a simple necklace. The golden chain glinted in the light as it swung from her fist. A small diamond was the only embellishment, looking lonely yet independent as it slid along the chain. Mrs. Vaughn fastened it around a bewildered Sydney's neck. They smiled at one another through the mirror. "I wore this the day I married Michael's father. I've always hoped that someday he would find someone that would make him as happy as his father made me. I want to pass this on to you in hopes that you'll keep love alive and in your heart forever, as I have. And when you two have children, pass it on to them as a reminder of the generations of love and loss and sacrifice behind it."

The only words Sydney could mutter were a choked thank you. She didn't have a chance to muster any more, for at that moment a soft knock sounded from the door. Her father stood there clad in the same suit from her botched church wedding. "They're ready."

Those two small words planted a field full of butterflies in the pit of her stomach. Mrs. Vaughn must have sensed her excitement because she helped the jelly-kneed bride to the door, placing Syd's hand in her father's before flittering off down the stairs and out the back door. Sydney smiled up at her father, having to bite her lip to keep from smiling too widely. "This is it," She whispered, barely audible over the crash of the waves.

He didn't give a verbal response, but his grip on her hand increased almost imperceptibly.

Taking her arm into the crook of his own, Jack Bristow led his daughter down the stairs and through the house to the back door. Before stepping out onto the porch he paused and turned to her. "Sydney," He began hesitantly, not able to look her in the eye, "I'm glad you haven't let…this lifestyle completely take over everything. And I…commend…your choice of a husband. I…couldn't have picked anyone better for you than Vaughn."

She could tell that he wanted to say something more but was too choked up to safely continued, so she tightened her hold on his arm. "I love you, too, Dad."

And with that they stepped out onto the porch and into the sunset.

The sandy path down to the beach was flanked on either side by tall dune grass, each blade bending and slithering against one another in the sea breeze. Where the grasses ended a golden beach began, now dotted with white beach chairs and the colourful clothing of their guests. At the end of the aisle stood the minister (driven in from the nearest town), Francie, Weiss, Will…and Michael. He looked as handsome as ever, making her want to simply cast aside the notion of a wedding march — which was being played by a lone violinist — and run into his arms. He was wearing a pair of hemp drawstring pants and a simple white short-sleeved button-down shirt, which was billowing in the breeze as it was halfway undone. She was going to have a hard time keeping her hands off him at the reception.

After getting kick-started by her father, they proceeded down the sand aisle to the beat of the music. With each step she took, one butterfly would flutter to rest somewhere within her. She had never been so sure of anything in her life as this moment and what they were about to do. Surrounded by friends and family, they were going to profess their undying love for the other and be bonded together for eternity. She couldn't wait.

Before she knew it, she was at the pinnacle of the sandy pathway, her father had given her away, and both her hands were in Michael's.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the union of Michael Vaughn and Sydney Bristow. Before we begin, if there is anyone here who can give reason as to why these two should not be wed, speak now or forever hold their peace."

As if they were one, Weiss and Francie turned on the small gathering, daring them with their eyes to object. Both Michael and Sydney bit back their laughter as they turned their attention back to the minister.

"The couple has opted to read their own vows before I read the traditional ones. Michael?"

She could feel his mouth immediately go dry as they shifted to face one another. Her breath hitched in her throat as his eyes drilled into her own. "I paid him to let me go first," He began with a small chuckle, "'cause I knew if I let you go first, I'd be too embarrassed to say even one word.

"You're so smart and so talented and so strong and so beautiful. I know I've said those things a million times, but I still don't think you understand how true they are. All the pain and heartache and suffering you've seen…Anyone else would have crumbled under it all, and yet you not only beat it but always find a way to _smile_ and _be happy_."

She smiled at the familiar words; a watery smile, as her eyes were ridden with unshed tears.

"From the moment I saw you I loved you; crazy wig, missing teeth, and everything. When I saw you cleaned up, it happened all over again. And when I read what you'd gone through…I didn't know it was possible to fall in love with the same person multiple times. Until I met you. You changed my world, Sydney. There's no other way to put it.

"And for that I pledge to you my love, my life, my body, my mind, and my soul for all eternity. I promise to coddle you until you pour iced tea down my pants; to carry you until you punch me in the face; to protect you from all that would do you harm and to bandage all wounds, both emotional and physical. I promise to always break the rules where you're concerned; to never stop complimenting you as long as I have breath in my lungs. And most importantly I promise to never let Eric Weiss baby-sit. Ever."

Laughing nervously, she blinked hard, sending a single tear sliding down her cheek. He reached up and stemmed its course with his index finger. Weiss mumbled something about actually being good with kids while extracting a handkerchief from his breast pocket, handing it to Michael, whom in turn passed it on to Syd. When she'd finished dabbing at her eyes it was passed back and the minister prodded, "Sydney?"

She took a deep, calming breath before beginning on the most important speech of her life. "You just stole everything that I was going to say, right up to banning Weiss from ever baby-sitting." This prompted a choked laugh from the man across from her, whose eyes were also veiled by a sheet of tears.

"I love you, Michael. We didn't say it for almost two entire years, and now I can't _stop_ saying it! If I began listing everything I love about you we'd be here for another three years, and I don't think Francie and Will and Eric would appreciate that. Let's just say that I love you — mind, body, and soul — and we'll leave it at that.

"Through thick and thin, bad and worse, sick and healthy, crazy and crazier, you've stuck by me, an immovable pillar of incredibly sexy strength. I don't think _you_ fully grasp how much I need you merely to _breathe_, how much of my strength really comes from knowing that I have your love. It's…it's the greatest feeling in the world.

"And that's why _I_ pledge to _you_ my undying love, my life, my mind, body, and soul. I promise to call you Vaughn only when I'm really mad at you; to let you give me bubble baths until my fingers and toes are wrinkly; to allow you to paint for days on end…as long as you let me watch. I promise to always cherish a day when you smile at me, and to limit my guardian angel compliments to a minimum of once a week, two during holidays. And I promise that Donovan won't steal me away from you."

The two shared a secret smile before forcing themselves to turn back to the minister. He was glowing as if he'd just seen Heaven itself. Perhaps it was because he had. "Now Michael, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others as long as you both shall live?"

"I do."

"And do you, Sydney, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold for richer or poorer, in sickness and health, forsaking all others as long as you both shall live?"

"I do."

"The rings, please." They were handed to each of the participants, each engraved with the same phrase: _'10/1: True Love'_. "Michael, repeat after me as you slip the ring onto her finger: with this ring, I thee wed."

Swallowing a lump in his throat he repeated, "With this ring, I thee wed."

"Sydney, repeat after me: with this ring, I thee wed."

"With this ring, I thee wed," She parroted softly, her eyes unable to look anywhere but his own.

The minister turned back to the gathering at large as they still gazed into each other's eyes. "Let these bands be a token of your affection, symbolizing the love you have for one another: a never-ending circle of purse gold. I now pronounce you husband and wife. And now, ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce to you Mr. and Mrs. Michael Vaughn." Both pairs of young eyes looked up at the old man expectantly, who laughed before adding, "You may kiss your bride, son."

And they kissed for the first time as husband and wife, the end of the beginning and the beginning of forever.

As they embraced before the slowly setting sun, Eric Weiss voiced the one word everyone was thinking:

__

"FINALLY!"

**__**

TBC…There's an epilogue next…


	5. Reception at Last

Different Shade of Normal: Spy Bride

****

Epilogue: Reception at Last

Even before the last echoes of Eric's exclamation were absorbed by sand or sea, the couple had made it all the way to the house, running up the path hand in hand and giggling like schoolchildren. They paused on the porch and kissed again, only their second kiss as husband and wife, their new status somehow adding a sweetness to the other's lips that had never been there before, but would be forever more. Neither of them could seem to get enough of the taste. Car engines began to turn over, finally breaking them apart: the guests were beginning to make their way down the road to the small restaurant where the reception would be held. Pretty soon the gravel driveway was devoid of all cars except for the dilapidated pick-up; its bed looking more and more inviting the longer Syd stared at it.

Suddenly grabbing her hand, Michael began tugging her into the old house. His eyes had that mischievous glint that he only got when he wanted to— "Come on, Syd. We're alone, the house is completely empty, and you look so sexy that I've lost all power of speech."

"You sound pretty good to me." He threw her a Look under his eyebrows, eyes narrowed in lust and need. Despite her attempts at keeping her face straight, a smile was sliding of its own accord across her face and her feet began to shuffle upon the worn floorboards. "Michael…We-we can't…The restaurant is literally two minutes away. If we're late, they'll know what happened."

"They're all _expecting_ it to happen. If we don't show up late, they'll be sad. And so will I."

"My dad will kill you," She replied slowly and pointedly, trying desperately to regain control of her feet as he tugged her towards the back staircase. "Even though you're family now, he'll have no reservations about killing you."

"Come on! After three yeas of engagement, he's gotta think that we've had sex at least once."

"He knows, but that doesn't mean he has to like it."

"Syd!" He was now pouting like a small child in a toy store who wasn't getting his way. She half expected him to stomp his foot in protest. Instead, he roughly tugged her to his lips, one hand on her waist and the others slipping the zipper of her dress ever downwards…

She broke their embrace with a muffled laugh as she pushed off of his chest. When she opened her eyes, he was still poised in the air expectantly, lids shut and lips pursed, waiting for her to reengage contact. She thrust her fists into her hips and shook her head incredulously. "You are incorrigible. Just like your dog. Although he only tries to hump my leg once a month."

His eyelids flew apart and his arms dropped. Before he could make another move, she bolted for the stairs, taking them three at a time with him dumbfounded at the foot of the flight. He quickly regained ground, though, when she detoured into his mother's room to grab her sandals, but she reached the front door before he even reached the top of the front staircase. Each of them paused, daring the other to move without words.

Finally Syd gave in, holding her hands up above her head in surrender. He smiled slyly and began sauntering down the stairs, but she waved a finger in the air, signaling him to stop. "Not so fast, my dear husband," She murmured, her voice dropping down an octave and sounding more smoky and sultry. "I'll give you a _little_ of what you want." Gathering the skirt of her silk dress in her fists, she lifted it up quickly to only reveal her slip with the nameless colour and darted out the door to his truck, the gravel poking sharply into her bare feet.

By the time he reached his truck, she was already in the cab with the doors locked and laughing like each giggle would be her last. He tapped her window in faux annoyance, eyes narrowing dangerously. But he couldn't fool her; she knew he couldn't possibly be too peeved at her mere minutes after making her his wife. She blew a playful raspberry at the glass and began sliding her sip up her bare leg. His hand flattened against the pane and his forehead connected with the glass in interest as the hem finally exposed the decorative black and red garter. Secretly laughing at his lust-filled face, Syd propped her leg upon the dashboard, inadvertently sending the material cascading down to her hip.

Her eyes were watering with the unshed laughter burning in her lungs. She'd never teased him to this extent before, and she was enjoying the superiority beyond belief. Noting the state of the setting sun (the last sliver was just slipping into the sea), she judged that they'd been stalling for a good fifteen minutes: definitely enough time to start rumours and to spark Weiss's motor mouth. Using the hand crank, she rolled the window down an inch, pressed her lips through the opening and said, "You better get rid of your little problem, dear husband, or else people — namely Weiss — will talk."

His face drooped ever so slightly as his hand dropped from the window. "Little problem? Is that what you really think, Syd? I didn't know you felt that way. Wow. That is a _huge_ ego blow."

Pressing her forehead against the glass, her eyes casually glanced towards the centre of his hips and nodded in satisfaction. "There we go; all better. And I didn't even have to mention the time that you saw Eric in his Speedo."

Each gave an involuntary shudder.

"Anyone in a Speedo is just wrong. And him…That was practically blasphemous."

"I don't know. I wouldn't mind seeing _you_ in a Speedo. Those suits don't hide anything, and you, my dear, have quite a lot to hide."

A deep, throaty groan made its way from Michael around the window and to her ears. "Syd, if you keep talking like that, we're going to miss the reception and that dress just might end up in shreds."

Granting herself one more peek at the sun, she nodded in consent. "Yeah, I guess we're late enough. I'd hate to have my father kill you before I get to experience my wedding night."

While he walked around the front of the truck, she unlocked his door and strapped herself into the seat farthest away from the driver. He plopped down onto the seat, but before he started the vehicle, he pulled her closer and captured her lips. Their tongues tangoed in each other's mouths until the need for oxygen became too great and they had to break their contact. Upon separation, she immediately felt the need for him build up inside of her, overruling the logical side of her brain. Somehow his hand had ended up near the juncture of her legs, and she could feel it taunting her with its close proximity.

He must have noticed her half-lidded eyes because he commented snidely, "Payback's a bitch, ain't it?"

Hitting him playfully she instructed him to drive already, and even unbuckled her seatbelt to inch towards him. Her body wouldn't allow her to be away from his perpetual warmth for too long.

Their two-minute journey was wrought with sexual tension, each of their hands twitching as a result of their attempts to control themselves. When they arrived, the party had already started out on the sand.

The restaurant was a small seaside venture with a private beach and large deck in the back for an "ocean view dining experience." For the reception, the large porch was lit with strings of white Christmas lights shedding a warm glow on a long head table and a few smaller round tables. Candles were the centres of each round surface, guarded by disposable cameras for the guests (they hadn't had room in their budget for a professional photographer). The "dance floor" was bordered by flaming Tiki torches, and unseen speakers that were probably under the wooden deck supplied music. As the couple pulled into the miniscule parking lot, what they saw first were Francie, Will, and Weiss waiting for them outside the front door. They stood up as Michael helped Sydney out of the truck, and greeted the newlyweds with disapproving glares.

Before they could enter the restaurant, Fran took her best friend by the shoulders and forced her to lock gazes. "You had sex in his mother's house, didn't you? _Please_ tell me you did not have _sex_ in _his mother's_ house, Sydney."

Weiss gave Michael a quick once-over with his expertly trained eye. "They didn't, Fran. This is the look of a thoroughly unsatisfied man. We better savour this because I severely doubt we'll get the pleasure of seeing either of them like this ever again."

"Shut up, Eric," Syd hissed menacingly, absentmindedly intertwining her fingers with Michael's. "Now let's make with the food. I starved myself for a week so I could fit into this dress."

"No you didn't," Michael contradicted, smiling even as he shook his head.

Shrugging her shoulders indifferently she replied, "So I exaggerated a bit. The last thing I had to eat was a _salad_ for lunch. I'm ready for some meaty action."

Will and Weiss simply could not contain their guffaws as the five friends filed into the restaurant. Fran glared at them disapprovingly. "Get a hold of yourselves, for Pete's sake! I swear, you two are a hundred times worse together than you are apart, and that's saying something for Eric." Turning on the new husband and wife she added, "And you two better not provoke them. You don't want to give him more fodder for his Best Man Speech, do you?"

That shut each of them up for a good, solid minute.

The dining section of the room was almost completely devoid of tables; the only occupants were the gift table and a buffet line (it hadn't been able to fit outside). Doors were propped open, allowing the cool night air and sweet scent of sea salt to permeate the Italian-smelling inside. The sounds were layered upon one another, creating an odd sort of symphony: the clanging of chefs in the kitchen was predominant, laughing and talking secondary, and waves crashing as the tide came in were the lulling background, the bottom of the pyramid of sound. It was the first song on the soundtrack of their new life, and they wanted to hit repeat.

Syd and Michael lingered around the gift table while their friends went outside to announce the newlyweds' arrival. They poked and prodded at the large, brightly-wrapped boxes and scoffed at the envelopes that most assuredly contained money or gift certificates.

"You know, some people just don't have any imagination anymore," Syd commented, fingering one envelope in particular before replacing it back on a small stack of similar objects.

At the same time, Michael examined an unassuming gift wrapped in newspaper. It had no markings on it other than the smudged lettering, no indication of who it was from. But each of them knew immediately who had offered the crude present. "Eric," They moaned simultaneously, and Sydney rounded the table to stand next to her husband. "Should we open it now?" She added, voicing the unspoken question that was foremost in each of their minds. They locked eyes and exchanged reluctant and worried glances. Finally he nodded, and they each began to peel away opposite corners of the newsprint.

They slowly revealed a nondescript cardboard container roughly the size of a magazine and the depth of a dictionary. Together, they slowly lifted the lid, hearing the cracking of the spine as it went. It revealed things that made Syd want to run out onto the beach and kill Weiss in the quickest way she knew how. The box was divided into two sections: the left (labeled "before") and right (labeled "after"). The former sect contained bright red square packages with the Trojan condom logo branded onto each. Strange thing, though: each seemed to have been pierced through the middle with some sort of sharp object, rendering them completely ineffective. On the right side were cigars wrapped in cellophane, each paired with either a pink or blue flag. The couple glanced quickly at one another quizzically, unsure as to what he was trying to say. Upon looking at the underside of the lid, they sighed in exasperation.

__

'Thought you crazy kids could use some "protection". Crank me out a little niece or nephew soon, would ya? P.S.: This box has a trick bottom. The real gift is underneath.'

There was their answer.

Lifting up the bottom (spilling the condoms and cigars in the process), they revealed over a thousand dollars in assorted crinkled and folded bills. The same thought entered into their minds conjointly: _'The winnings from the office pool.'_

Just then Fran poked her head inside, her arm also making an appearance as it beckoned them forward. "Come on! People want to get their food so they can toast you! Get out of the way!" As she finished, she was shoved inside by a mass of people that Sydney couldn't possibly believe had come from her wedding alone. Michael and Sydney squeezed their way out into the soft glow of the Christmas lights and to their seats at the Head Table. They'd arranged to have their food waiting for them when they arrived just so they wouldn't have to deal with that mess (and possibly soiling her dress in the process). They simply ate quietly while the tables in front of them became occupied, holding one another's hand on top of the table and remembering a time years ago when the action would have been forbidden.

Bus boys bustled about with bottles of champagne clutched in their young fists, topping off some goblets and refilling others. Everyone had barely seated himself or herself when Francie rose ceremoniously, holding a glass of bubbly in one hand and smoothing out invisible wrinkles in her dress with another. She cleared her throat — effectively silencing the room — and began to speak. "As the Maid of Honour, best friend to the bride, stalker of the groom, girlfriend of the Best Man, and the only female going to give a speech, I think I'll go first." Weiss leaned forward, looking down the table at her, and childishly stuck out his tongue. She responded by flicking him off while casually pretending to rub the corner of her eye.

"I feel like I've known Sydney since the day she was born, but in reality, I've only known her since about high school or freshman year of college; the exact date doesn't matter. And in all that time, I've never seen her happier than when someone mentions Michael Vaughn's name."

Syd couldn't contain a smile from stretching her lips and caving in her cheeks; her left hand was squeezed as well, a friendly reminder that he was still there.

"I would bet my life on the idea that they've been reincarnated thousands of times, and in each lifetime they've somehow found each other. They truly are one person: one mind, one body, and one soul; so all that crap they said about them belonging to each other was completely unnecessary and really obvious. They already do belong to one another. They're goddamn near inextricable. I may not know the minor details — where _exactly_ they work, what the hell they do at late-night 'meetings' — but I do know this: Juliet has finally found her Romeo. And this time, there _will_ be a happy ending. That I'm sure of.

"And," Fran added, tone promising that it would be on a lighter note, "I would just like to say that although I've known you for about three and a half years, I don't know you that well, Michael. In other words, you definitely ain't safe from me. If I hear anything — _anything _— about you mistreatin' my girl, here, I will come find you _wherever_ you may be and beat yo' ass 'til it ain't cute no more." Michael scooted his chair farther away from Francie, causing small chuckles to ripple over the gathering.

Smiling and turning back to the group at large, Fran raised her glass and continued, "That being said…To Sydney and Michael."

"To Sydney and Michael," echoed the group, all taking a sip of their champagne in unison.

Then Eric Weiss stood up, proudly puffing out his chest like a three-year-old who had just used the toilet by himself for the first time. The couple cringed automatically, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that he was going to embarrass them to an insane extent. Boy, were they surprised. "I just don't know how in the hell I am going to follow that up," He began sarcastically. Seeming to loosen, he took up a more relaxed stance, shoving one hand into a pocket of his pants.

"The only part of this shebang that I was supposed to be able to plan was the bachelor party, and as I severely doubt its occurrence _after_ this shindig, you all get the pleasure of hearing what I was going to say there. Hopefully it'll still come out right even though I'm not even the teeniest bit drunk yet.

"I don't believe there could be a happier person on the planet than me to see you two _finally_ tie the knot. Unlike most people here, I've been privy to almost every single event in your relationship. And despite my initial, ahem, objections to the pursuit of this, I couldn't be happier that my buddy Mike completely ignored my advice, and then listened when I told him to go after her. Unfortunately, I was there when they first kissed, and when he proposed…I was about to say 'yes' for the girl; she took so damn long.

"They're so utterly perfect for each other that it very nearly makes me sick, especially when they finish each other's sentences or start getting all touchy-feely. He reminds her of the rules before they shamelessly break them without a second thought; she makes his loosen up, even persuading him _not_ to iron his underwear from time to time. The way they balance each other out…they've definitely had _at least_ one lifetime to work out the kinks.

"I'm not ashamed to say I'm jealous. In this crazy world, this crazy line of work in which lies and betrayal are dealt with as regularly as a broken pencil tip, they've managed to somehow carve a slice of peace for themselves. It's rare — so painfully rare. Every time I find myself starting to resent either of them, I remind myself of that fact, and then I'm glad that two of the people that I love most in this world have found themselves a corner of Heaven on Earth.

"So I guess what I'm trying to say is thank you, Sydney, for marrying my best friend in the whole world, therefore becoming one yourself. You've saved me the task of having to; I knew if you'd said no, he'd never go after anyone else, dooming us both to life in a single's apartment complex. Thank you for giving me occasion to double my sexual innuendo dictionary and quadruple the opportunities for teasing.

"And Mike…watch your back buddy. Now that I've successfully schmoozed your wife, she'll be more than willing to aid me in my obscenely complicated schemes. She can get you at times that I really wouldn't want to get you. All I gotta say is 'heh, heh, heh.'

"So here's to Syd and Mike. May he _handle_ her better than he did last time, and may she think about me every time she squirts crazy glue on the toilet seat when he doesn't put the lid down. And may their life together be teeming with bliss and cheesiness; they sure as hell deserve it."

The majority of the crowd mumbled an uncertain consent while those who knew Eric Weiss well heartily agreed as they raised their glasses. All Michael and Sydney could do was shake their heads and chuckle in bemusement.

After he sat down with a plop, the gathering began to eat, adding the layer of silverware clinking to the soundtrack. The newlyweds talked amongst themselves and their friends, each both physically and verbally berating the Best Man and Maid of Honour for their oh-so-wonderful speeches. By the time everyone was finished and the bus boys were clearing the dishes, Michael and Sydney wanted desperately to just _leave_. Francie obviously noticed this.

With a sidelong glance in her best friend's direction, she stood and clinked a random fork against her champagne glass to round up everyone's attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, we will now make with the throwing of the non-existent bouquet and the very-there garter. These two want to get on with their wedding night, if you know what I mean. So if you all could just kinda…separate…then we could get started. Oh! And if someone would be so kind as to gather a bouquet of flowers, that would be great."

When everything was situated (and dirty looks ceased to be thrown between Syd and Fran), the bride stood on a chair in front of the Head Table facing the restaurant. A group of non-married girls (including Francie) were congregating behind her, each in a crouch and ready to spring up into the air. Syd laughed as she fingered the purple ribbon around the stems (taken from her Maid of Honour's dress), letting the lithe material slip languidly in between her fingers. Upon a shout of encouragement, she catapulted the flowers over her shoulder and into the squealing, pecking, moshing pit of hyenas. When the victor became known, Eric groaned loudly in discomfort: Fran had emerged from the fray, complete with tousled hair, shallow scratch marks, and her dress slightly torn in one or two places and brandishing the blossomless flowers.

For the garter tossing, Syd seated herself on the chair and awaited Michael patiently, her hands clasped around her right knee to keep them from shaking. As he kneeled before her and began sliding both dress and slip over her smooth leg, a part of her consciousness remarked to itself that her father must be seething at that moment. His daughter was sitting and being practically stripped by a man that worked under him; the fact that they were husband and wife now probably had no affect on anything whatsoever.

When the lonely black and red garter was exposed, Michael quickly took it between his teeth and began pulling it down over the taught muscles of her right leg. "Do you have any idea how much this is turning me on right now?" He asked quietly around the fabric in his mouth.

She didn't respond, knowing that he knew what she felt in return.

As soon as she was free of the material, he stood and gripped it tightly in his fist, looking for a possible candidate. The men were a little less obvious when it came to their eagerness over the meaningless tradition; they just milled around in the same spot, conversing with their bodies angled almost imperceptibly towards the couple. Syd leaned in close to her new husband's ear, whispered something, and pointed over to a man standing at the opposite end of the restaurant's porch, trying his damnedest to make himself blend in with the aged wood. Taking careful aim, Michael hooked the garter around the neck of the man's outstretched champagne glass.

"I swear to God I'll kill you, Michael!" Eric Weiss roared, almost dropping the goblet in surprise. He advanced towards his best friend while brandishing a menacing index finger.

Michael merely shrugged and stepped behind Sydney, rooting her in place by lightly laying his hands upon her shoulders. "Hey, you can't fault a man for liking horseshoes, now, can ya?"

"Sydney Anne, you had better keep that man tied up under lock and key to make sure he doesn't get anywhere _near_ me!"

"You don't have to tell me twice," Syd replied eagerly, grabbing hold of Michael's elbow and beginning to drag him towards the doors of the restaurant. The only thing that stopped her was Francie's own pointing index finger.

"Don't you _dare_ go anywhere," She ordered, a threatening undertone colouring her voice. "You still have the Daddy/Daughter dance and your first spin around the floor as husband and wife."

The couple looked at each other and had to work to constrain their laughter. Theirs eyes communicated what their mouths could not:

__

'This is Francie's wedding again.'

Shaking their heads in unison, Michael began leading his bride down the rickety stairs to the gathering on the dance floor. He spotted his mother conversing with a still-fuming Eric under a Tiki torch and regretfully parted from Syd, settling for a small peck on the cheek before striding off on the uneven ground. Syd had begun her search for her own parent when she felt his presence behind her. A bittersweet smile spread across her lips as she turned around, her hands not exactly knowing what to do with themselves and ending up clasped behind her back.

Jack looked out of place; he was clad in the same attire as most of the other men, yet had a cloud of apparent discomfort circling in the air around him. His hands also had nothing to occupy them (he had never really cared for champagne, she remembered), so they ended up hanging loosely at his sides. His eyes were everywhere but hers as if searching for a person hidden in the crowd with his cue cards. He must have finally given up because as he cleared his throat his gaze settled on hers. "Sydney…would you, uh, would you like to…Would you like to dance with me?"

Her smile widened genuinely and her dimples allowed her cheeks to cave in. "I'd love to, Dad."

His chest seemed to swell with pride; his shoulders rolled back and his chin lifted almost imperceptibly as he led his only child to the middle of the "floor". As she leaned against him with her head on his shoulder, she could almost feel his thoughts flowing from his heart into her brain: thoughts of loneliness, abandonment, and grandchildren.

Words began welling the in the back of her throat and going so far as to teeter on the tip of her tongue, but they were stuck fast, unable to go any further. She was so preoccupied with forcing them out of her system that her father's voice in her ear came as a total shock to her.

"I'm sorry."

Her head lifted from his shoulder and she peered at him, confused.

Taking a deep breath and avoiding her gaze again he continued, "I'm sorry for requesting those missions for you and Vaughn. I suppose they were a little unnecessary."

__

'A little?!' Her mind screamed, but her lips remained steadfast and quenched the words before they spewed forth. Instead Syd found herself murmuring, "It's okay, Dad. We knew you meant well." And it really _was_ okay. If he hadn't delayed their inevitable marriage for exactly three years, they wouldn't have had such a wonderful wedding or have such great memories to treasure. And anyways, how many people could boast that they've lived through _four_ weddings with the same person and had only actually gotten married once?

His silent nod affirmed his reception of her unsaid meaning.

The song ended, and father and daughter broke apart after a lingering hug. She began to wedge her way through the crowd, and when she looked back, a most unusual sight met her eyes. Her father, Senior Agent Jack Bristow, was genuinely smiling. His thin lips were stretched wider than they had been in over twenty-three years, spreading from ear to ear 'til his face nearly split from the exertion. Crows' feet crinkled at the corners of his beady eyes, and it suddenly struck her how old her father actually was. It made the sight turn bittersweet with the major emphasis still on the sweet.

Two arms suddenly wrapped around her waist from behind, making her totter back and forth. She giggled and leaned into her husband, snaking her own appendages around his neck and pulling his head down to rest in the crook of her neck, his steady breath falling on her collarbone. "Since you _insist_ on calling me your G.A., I hereby dub you my S.B."

She cocked her head to the side and offered a lopsided grin. "S.B.? But my name's no longer Sydney _Bristow_, I am glad to announce."

"I know; it stands for spy bride. You are now my spy bride."

"That is so lame Michael!" She scoffed while blushing; she secretly loved it.

"Well, so is 'guardian angel,' but has that ever stopped you? That one has the misfortune of being cliché as well."

"Just…shut up," She fumbled, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. He released her and turned Syd around so that they were facing one another. The magnetic force between their two sets of lips became glaringly apparent at that moment, and they became closer and closer until—

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please!" Francie demanded of the crowd from atop the porch stairs. The couple of honour broke apart instantaneously.

"You've already had it! Leave us alone!" An exaggerated voice yelled, floating up from the back of the gathering; it sounded suspiciously like one Mister Eric Weiss.

She glared at her boyfriend through the dim torchlight but continued anyway. "If you will clear the dance floor, please, the bride and groom will have their first dance." The guests began gravitating towards the Tiki torches, gathering around them in clumps of suits and dresses.

This left Sydney and Michael alone in the middle of the patch of sand, grasping onto each other and glancing around awkwardly; they were accustomed to being invisible, blending into the surroundings. Now, they were painfully aware of everyone else's presence as they forced themselves to relax. It was then that Syd noticed something very strange: they were _glowing_. Maybe it was the foreign torches, her imagination, or even the effect of their white clothing, but their similarly bronzed skin sparkled with an internal glow that could not be dismissed as a mere cliché. The possibility of sweat flittered across her mind, followed by a more plausible idea.

Love was seeping from their very pores, slathering itself over every inch of their bodies, nooks and crevices alike, until Sydney was positive that she wasn't the only one who could notice their radiance.

Michael slid her left hand to his shoulder as he took up the other, his right hand settling gently but firmly on her hip. As the first strains of the familiar song drifted out to meet them, she smiled at him, rolled her eyes, and shook her head incredulously. Her grin remained transfixed as she laid her head down upon his solid shoulder, pulling him closer as he began to lead them in a slow, simple dance of teetering back and forth.

__

"Come to me now

Lay your hands over me

Even if it's a lie

Say it will be all right

And I will believe

"Broken in two

I know you're on to me

That I only come home

When I'm so all alone

But I do believe

"That not everything is gonna be the way

You think it ought to be

It seems like every time I try to make it right

It all comes down on me

Please say honestly you won't give up on me

And I shall believe

"Open the door

And show me your face tonight

I know it's true

No one heals me like you

And you hold the key

"Never again

Would I turn away from you

I'm so heavy tonight

But your love it all right

And I do believe

"That not everything is gonna be the way

You think it ought to be…"

A drop of condensation landing on her nose drew Syd's attention away from their dance. Lifting her head off his shoulder she peered Heaven-wards.

The wind had picked up, capping the waves with bonnets of muted grey and increasing their frequency and volume. A sheet of pure black velvet had blocked out the stars and moon that had glinted at them so dotingly at the beginning of their festivities. A sheet that was the splitting in two, its fluid contents cascading down upon the happy couple.

Women — who not seven months ago at a similar event were being threatened with their lives and stayed silent — scampered into the restaurant screaming bloody murder at the tops of their lungs. The men, as well, loped inside to get out of the torrent of rain. Michael and Sydney merely stopped shuffling their feet and laughed in amazement.

"This is crazy!" He yelled over the waves.

"I know!" She replied, voice almost carried away with the galling wind. "Isn't it ironic? Rain on our wedding day! Nothing can even be perfect for us, can it?"

"Oh, where's the fun in perfect?" He answered rhetorically. "If something _had_ to mess up this day, I'm glad it was Mother Nature and not Sark or Sloane shooting up the place and kidnapping you."

"Yeah," She agreed. Their eyes bored into one another's, oblivious to the fact that rain and sea spray had effectively both drenched and ruined their clothes. Wet sand caked their feet and served as natural shoes. His hair was plastered to his scalp, the excess water running down his chiseled façade in rivulets. Reaching up to brush aside a stray lock she continued, "What's a little rain, anyway? All the perfection I need is right in front of me. God, what in the world did I do to deserve you?"

He cupped her cheek and she nuzzled into the gesture, closing her eyes. "You were born. Now, let's dance." Taking her back into his sopping arms, the newlyweds swayed to the crash of the ocean, the ping of drops on tin; they danced to the soundtrack of life.

***

Round spheres of water crashed through the branches of the tree, their paths sometimes effectively barred by its large leaves. The canopy shed a slightly darker shadow upon the sandy soil, allowing her a perfect and natural cover. Everyone was too blissfully happy to even think of seriously checking his or her surroundings thoroughly. And anyways, anyone that would have objected to her presence was inside like spineless asses; the couple that remained out of doors appeared to have no though plaguing either mind but those of the other.

She sighed a smooth sigh that had the same inflections as a sentence, but instead of varying pitch it varied in emotion. It started out happily and content but shifted downwards into a lower register, straddling the fence between bittersweet and longing. She inwardly flinched as she cut short her exhalation; she wasn't supposed to _feel_, only observe quietly and melt away again into the background to continue with her life on the run. An internal battle that had previously been pacified by a cease-fire flared into a full-fledged war in the pit of her stomach; the compartmentalizing spy senses usually held the upper hand over her mothering nature. But she made a swift change in her emotional demeanor; she decided to screw storing her emotions and opted instead for living in the moment.

She had to admit to herself: the feeling was utterly amazing.

The large drops continued to beat relentlessly down upon the landscape, but she was kept relatively dry by the large maple she had situated herself under. Leaning against the coarse trunk, she dabbled into the World That Might Have Been. If she'd had it her way, _she_ would be inside that restaurant hiding from the squall, probably yelling for the two of them to get out of the rain; they'd catch pneumonia out there dressed in next to nothing. _She'd_ have been the one to give Sydney a silly trinket and advising her to turn it into a family heirloom; _she'd_ have been the first one she told when they first got engaged. _She_ would have been there during their engagement, slapping Jack's hand every time he sent them on those separate missions or even looked at Vaughn the wrong way. Hell, if she'd had her way, she would have been there every single moment of Sydney's life, reveling in her happiness and despairing at her sadness.

But nothing ever went exactly how she planned it. Ever.

Case in point: the night of Sydney's wedding.

Showers she'd never get to plan, dinners she'd never get to host, grandchildren she'd never get to hold…All flashed through her mind repeatedly, a cruel slide show that taunted and laughed at her as if it were a person, alive, well, and standing right next to her.

She was beginning to think that indulging her nurturing side had been somewhat of a mistake. Especially when an unfamiliar stinging sensation began in the pit of her stomach, wormed its way up her throat, and somehow ended at the brims of her eyelids. Immediately after is arrival at her eyes, something teetered on the edge of her lower lid, almost reluctant to go further. Suddenly it fell, sliding in between her long lashes and rolling steadily down the gracefully aging skin of her cheek until it ran out of track and unceremoniously dropped off her jaw to join the damp sand at her feet. What in hell…?

Oh. They were tears.

That explained everything.

And nothing at the same time.

__

This was the reason she never usually let herself feel; the messes she'd gotten herself into with these _emotions_ of hers…The amount and magnitude would make her former Russian handler roll over in his grave.

Oh well. It happened.

She'd fill her quota for the next twenty years and — of course — get over it.

Her feet yearned to march down the beach, out into the rain, and to the happy couple; her arms itched to hold her daughter in her arms and congratulate her with all the heartfelt words she could concoct in every language she knew. She could feel the Russian expressions forming on her tongue and piling up in the back of her throat, spilling down into the pit of her stomach.

But instead she stood stock still, remaining against the rough trunk of the tree, a silent observer to the festivities that she had dreamt of from the moment Sydney was born.

Life hadn't been fair to her, but maybe it would be to Sydney and Michael.

The couple embraced, leaning into one another as if afraid that if they left any space, a plank would be forced into the space to wedge them apart. Raindrops became less frequent, the wind decrescendoed to a pleasant breeze; the sky began to clear, and the stars and crescent moon twinkled down upon them like long lost friends. Words finally fought their way to her lips but, upon winning the battle, had lost some strength; they flowed out as a mere wisp of breath.

"Congratulations, Sydney. Good luck."

**__**

END

*~*

Next story in DSN series: The Wedding Night. Not exactly suitable material for FF.Net, although a PG-13/R-rated version will be posted here with a link to the…not-so-innocent one. Hope you enjoyed this story as much as I did. Review, as always, and constructive criticism is welcomed. Thanks for reading!

:) Becky, the Dream Writer 4 Life


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